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There isn’t enough sobriety and order in the world that can tamp this woman’s effect on me.
“You’re right. You can’t change who I am. But you’ve already changed what I want.”
“What is it that you want?”
“To hear you scream my name.”
At that, I grab the headboard with one hand and root myself so deep inside of her, she arches off the bed. I drive harder. Faster. Every muscle in my body is ready to snap. The bed shakes and jostles with my assault. Headboard smacking against the wall as if the damn thing might break.
Every glide feels as if another piece of my control is flitting away like a string. Fingernails score my back, as she moans in my ear and angles her hips just enough that I slip my palm over her ass. Breasts pressed into my chest, she writhes beneath me, her body trembling, and I lift away just enough to watch the orgasm wash over her like a fucking rainbow. The divine glow of pleasure adding a warm blush to her cheeks.
The whole goddamn world seems to shake around me, shifting off balance, and the sound of my name on her lips is all I can stand. The last shred of my resistance snaps away and I pull out of her, strip the condom off and let the hot jets of cum mark what I know is true from this point on: The girl is mine.
34
Céleste
Feeling weightless in his arms, I rest my cheek against Thierry’s warm chest, as he carries me to the bathroom. A steady heartbeat pounds against my ear in a mocking cadence that reminds me it’s nothing but a hollow muscle beating for itself, and I blink away the oncoming tears that belie this hardened facade I’ve had to wear in the last hour. I’ve fucked two men in my life. Kissed them. Gotten them off more times than I can count. Every encounter met with a cold and shallow predictability that I not only understood, but accepted.
This? This hurts. Like a hot blade in my chest. Not because I regret giving myself to him, but because I regret the now. The awkward silence between us, as he sets me down alongside the shower stall. Here, I thought he’d steal the opportunity to be cruel and violent during sex, because that would be appropriate for a man as cold and indifferent as Thierry. That he could be so intensely passionate and gentle with me is a vicious blow I wasn’t prepared to suffer.
Especially as nothing’s changed between us now it’s over.
I hate that I can’t muster the same level of detachment. That my stomach flutters twice as much as before. That my heart beats harder. Sex has always been the severing point for me, the inevitable disconnect, but I feel somehow more entwined with this man now. Which isn’t good, considering he plans to hand me over to the cartel.
I’d hoped, maybe, I could woo him with my body, but Thierry is as unmovable as stone. I knew when he called me out on it that he’d already accounted for my stupidity.
Yet, I still don’t regret tonight, and that’s probably the worst of it.
He lifts the necklace with the key from where it rests against my bare breast. “What is this thing you always wear? In the shower and during sex?”
Managing a slight smile, I glance down to where he holds it in his fingers. “It’s the key to a secret chamber.”
“Is that a metaphor for your heart, or something?”
Shaking my head, I wait for him to step inside the stall, and when he flicks his fingers for me, I follow in after him. “It’s the last thing my father gave to me. It opens a secret room in that house.”
“You’ve worn it all these years?”
“I’ll never take it off.”
Gripping my arm, he pulls me into his body, into the hot spray of the water, and holds me tight to him as his lips seize mine. Powerful, dominant. I have no hope against this man, whose kiss demands that I surrender to him completely. Water trickles between our lips, and he licks it away.
With a nudge of my shoulder, he urges me to twist around, and when I do, he gathers my hair up into his hand, and tugs just enough to tilt my head to the side, where he kisses my neck while crossing his other arm possessively over my body. It’s then that the scar on his arm, the one I noticed during sex, catches my eye.
On reaching for it, I pause, hesitant. I’ve always hated when others touched the scar on my face. It always felt so invasive to me.
“It’s okay. You can touch it,” he assures.
Raised, protracted skin brushes beneath my fingertips as I run them across the healed wound. “This is where the wolf bit you.”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember it?”
“Not everything, no. I apparently passed out.”
“I can’t remember much of the attack on me, either.” Slow and gentle, I trace the edge of his scar, and he allows it, not bothering to swat my hand away, as I would’ve done. “So, this is the wound that gave you your big bad wolf reputation, huh?”
