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He kisses lower, over my nape, and bites me there, making me squeal as he pushes a finger in me. “You want me to push you on the sofa and fuck your brains out?”
“Yes, damn you, yes.”
I want anything he’ll do to me.
He lets me go and gives me a shove and I land on the sofa, grabbing the back with my hands as I try to get my balance.
But Ryder isn’t going to let me. He’s there. Hands on me, over me. And as he kisses my neck, there’s a soft shift of material, the hiss of a zipper and I try to turn, but he stops me with his mouth against my cheek. “No.”
Ryder moves back a little and then pulls my bottoms down, and the cool air touches and teases my wetness. He’s left my underwear on. He hooks a finger against the gusset and pulls it to one side.
“Ryder?”
“I’m admiring the work of art you are, Elliot. Gorgeous. Pink and beckoning. Made for me, I think.”
And the head of his cock is there, pressing at me. It isn’t a pretty lovemaking, or seduction. It’s raw and angry and full of jagged erotic pleasure. And I want it all. I beg for it. I meet him thrust for thrust and it’s wild.
The deep singing pressure inside builds and I come and then he starts to hammer into me, hard, deep, relentless and then finally he sets me off once more, right as he comes and we tumble down into dark ecstasy together.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ryder
The silence afterwards is broken only by the whispery sounds of us putting clothes back to right and I want to kick myself. Hard.
“Elliot,” I say.
She won’t look at me, and her cheeks are flushed and her hands shake as she smooths them over her hair, pulling it back like she wants to tie that red bountiful beauty up. Hide it away.
“If you apologize, I’ll kill you.”
I half smile. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
Her gaze shoots to me. “That’s dangerously close to an apology.”
“I’m not apologizing for great sex.” I’m still dressed and after a moment’s hesitation I strip out of my overcoat. My head’s still slightly dazed and the thrum of the orgasm and its pleasure still ricochets through me. But I lay the coat down on the armchair and sit because I’m a little unsteady, and I’m in half a mind to reach for her again.
Or walk out the fucking door and into the nearest bar.
“Then, it’s me?”
“You think I’m saying I didn’t mean that to happen because of you?”
“I’m better than just being something to warm your dick.”
I laugh. It’s not a pretty sound and I don’t feel warm and fuzzy inside. This thing with us gets real complicated, real fast, and I can’t for the life of me work out why. It’s like we both want something, or don’t want something, that’s slightly out of reach.
And the more I think about it, try to find an answer, the more slippery it becomes.
I wait until she glares at me, but the vulnerable light, the hopeful light, along with the shadows of no that are there are the things that sink in deep. The anger is nothing more than a byproduct of the mess of emotion she feels. I know, because I feel that mess, too.
“There are plenty of places to warm my dick, as you so charmingly put it. And one of them doesn’t even require another person. Actually, if I got all creative, there are a few that don’t require anyone else, although I haven’t tried those.”
I’m getting off track.
“So you didn’t mean for that to happen and it happened?”
“Contrary to what’s in your head, I find you hard to resist.”
