Page 69

He pushes my legs up to my head and slams inside me once more. A sharp cry leaves me, and my hands move to his bulging biceps as he fucks me mercilessly. I’ve never had rough sex before, but I’m starting to realise I quite enjoy it.

‘Fuck me like you own me,’ I say breathlessly.

‘I do own you.’

Groaning, I turn my head into the doona, muffling the cries that leave my mouth. My legs quiver as his pace increases. He fucks me so hard that the bed frame slams against the wall in a rhythmic thump.

Another orgasm rises in me. He thrusts harder, his hand moving off my leg to slap my clit. A scream escapes me as the orgasm hits me harder than any one has before. I’m choking on my own breath, hardly recovered, when he suddenly pulls out, flips me onto my stomach, and grips my hips. He yanks me back towards him and enters me from behind. Leaning forward, he wraps his hand around my ponytail and lightly but firmly yanks it back. I mewl at the feel of it. No one’s ever done this to me before, but it’s fucking hot.

I push myself back into him, meeting his pace as I bow my back as much as I can, my face flush against the doona cover. My finger slips between my legs and I apply pressure in the exact right spot. A third orgasm washes over me, faster this time, making my pussy clamp around him. Ash releases a deep, guttural groan as he finishes with a few deep thrusts.

He pulls out of me, and we both collapse onto the bed, breathless and sweaty. I push back the loose bits of hair that are framing my face, my chest heaving.

‘Fuck, I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,’ he pants.

‘Worth the wait.’

‘I’ll say.’

I trace my finger up his muscled arms and travel over his shoulder to the edge of his mask. I lift it slowly. His dark hair falls into place first, then I see a scatter of light freckles dusting the tops of his cheeks, softening what should be an almost too-perfect face. His jaw is strong and sharp, as if you could cut yourself on it. His eyes meet mine, startlingly bright and blue up close, and striking in a way that feels too much for a man. I study him longer than I should, cataloguing every detail, aware he’s letting me, aware he knows exactly what this face does to me.

‘I’m so happy you’re here,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve been so lost without you.’

We’re still tangled together, and the room is lit only by a sign across the street, its glow slipping through the windows, casting everything in red. Ash is close enough that I can feel his breath against my flushed face. I shift to look at him. His blue eyes are softer now, stripped of their fire, but a steady intensity is still there. Being needed like this sends an ache through me. No one has ever wanted me as much as Ash has. I lift my hand and rest it against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under my palm, pounding just as fast as mine.

‘You don’t seem lost,’ I murmur. His arm tightens around me in response.

‘That’s because you’re here,’ he says, barely audible now.

He takes the mask from my hand and sets it aside. Slowly, he peels himself off the bed and offers me his hand, pulling me to my feet. The room feels smaller once we stand. My eyes roam over the dark walls. The place is bare and shadowy, with nothing out of place. He gestures toward the bathroom.

He turns on the shower and steam fills the room. When he steps under the water, I hesitate for half a second before joining him. Warm water slides over my skin, and I recognise the slight ache between my legs. It’s similar to the first time we slept together, years ago. I’m acutely aware of him beside me: his height, the heat radiating off him, the way his presence fills the space. Water droplets cling to his dark hair, catch briefly in his eyelashes, trace the line of his jaw, before disappearing down the rest of his beautiful body. His blue eyes linger on me, as if he’s memorising this version of me: flushed, bare faced, with wet hair. My fingers trace up his dark tattoos, curling over his muscles.

I pretend I’m not affected by how close he is, or by the way the water runs over his shoulders and down his chest, glistening across his muscles. Ash spends a generous amount of time rubbing body wash over me, massaging my shoulders and back. His hands move past my hips and down to my ass. Leaning back into him, I sigh, feeling sleepy and content.

We both step out of the shower and he passes me a towel, which I use to pat myself dry and then wrap up my hair. I pull on his black t-shirt, which hangs mid-thigh on me. It’s soft from wear and smells like him – his body wash, and that warm scent that is uniquely him. Wearing his shirt feels intimate, and part of me doesn’t want to give it back. He used to always leave me a shirt when he’d go back home, and I’d sleep in it through the week until he came back to give me another.

Ash disappears into the kitchen while I hover in the bathroom doorway, barefoot on the cool tiled floor. The apartment looks even darker at night. He moves with his sleeves pushed up, his hair still damp. He cooks just like he does everything else: quiet, precise, and completely unhurried.

‘Sit,’ he says without turning around, like he already knows I’m watching.

I slide onto the counter instead, swinging my legs. I study the way his jaw tightens when he tastes the sauce, his faint freckles still visible despite the dim light. There’s something disarming about watching him cook for me, the domestic softness contrasting everything dangerous I associate with him. It’s jarring to see the teenage boy I fell in love with all those years ago, now a man, cook for me after he just threw me around his apartment (in a super-hot way).

He plates the food carefully and sets it next to me, then watches while I take the first bite. He tracks my reaction.

‘Good?’ he asks.

I nod, swallowing. ‘Really good.’

A corner of his mouth lifts. It’s not quite a smile, but more like a smug acknowledgement, like he knows his cooking is good. He leans against the counter across from me, looking at me like I belong here, as if this scene fits into a future he’s already imagined. The thought sends a shiver through me.

I take another bite.

‘Lemon?’ I ask.

‘Mmhmm.’ He nods. ‘Lemon and garlic pasta with seared chicken.’

‘And what else?’