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I’m breathless, looking up at the ceiling, his weight a comfort I’m not used to. The guilt flames. But all I can think is, if I give it to someone, at least no one can take it from me.
I shift, disturbed by my thoughts, and Brad lifts his head and looks up at me. I search for regret. I search for shame. I find none. His eyes are clear—the swirl of anger I’m so used to gone. But what hasn’t disappeared is the inexplicable want I’m feeling now that I’ve admitted, and acted on, the pull I feel toward him. I should get dressed. Leave. Go to my room.
Hide.
But under his soft gaze, I’m capable of nothing except soaking up the unfamiliar warmth of both his body and his eyes. It’s . . . unexpected.
He’s the first to move, peeling his chest from mine. He takes my hands and pulls me up to sitting, and I automatically look between my legs expecting to see blood. “Are you okay?” he asks as he pulls the condom off and knots it.
I smile down at my thighs as I tug the cups of my bra up. “You keep asking me that.”
“You’ve not said much.” He pulls his trousers up and slips the condom in his pocket before pulling the two sides of his shirt together and buttoning it up.
“Neither have you.” I search the floor for my knickers, spotting them on top of my dress, but before I can slide off the desk to collect them, Brad’s dipped and picked up the bunch of clothes.
He separates my knickers from my dress, hands me my dress, and slips my knickers into his pocket. I shoot him a surprised look.
“We’re not done yet, Pearl.”
“We’re not?” I don’t know how I feel about that. Scratch the itch, and the itch is scratched. Obviously, I’m completely lying to myself. But taking more will make this whole situation even worse.
“Here.” Brad gathers my dress by the neck and slips it over my head. “Arms.” I lift them as instructed and watch him with interest as he dresses me. This isn’t good. I gravitated toward him when he was a cold arsehole. I don’t need him being all attentive and considerate. All the things I’m not used to. And yet I can’t stop myself taking his hand when he offers it and letting him help me down from the desk where I just let him fuck me. He keeps hold of me as he collects my bag and his jacket and leads us out of the office, apparently unconcerned by being seen by any one of the people who live here. He leads me up the stairs, down the corridor, and opens the door.
To his room.
I stop on the threshold as he stops just inside, turning on the lights, his back to the door to hold it open. Looking at me. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I shouldn’t enter this room. I should not go to bed with him. But to have that feeling of uninhibitedness again? To feel that warmth, that . . . affection?
I step inside on a deep breath and gaze around the room, and the door shuts behind me. I hear a thud, my bag and his jacket dropping to the floor, and my shoulders rise when I feel him move in behind me, pressing his front to my back. His groin into my arse. That heavy, persistent pulse drops to between my thighs again. Electricity sizzles and sparks around us. My body is flaming hot. It’s almost unbearable, and I know—fear—there’s only one way to cool it.
Looking down, I see his arm slide around my waist, easing me back gently, his hips rolling, showing me his condition. He’s hard again already? Then he starts walking forward, forcing my steps, the bed our destination. The sheets are strewn, unmade. He takes my dress and pulls it up over my head, forcing my arms up, and then unfastens my bra. Taking the straps, he drags it down my arms, his mouth falling to my shoulder, kissing me.
And I’m gone, at the mercy of his tenderness. My head falls back onto his shoulder and he moves in on my neck, working my throat, up to my chin, encouraging my face toward him. A brief look into my eyes before he claims my mouth, his hand sliding over my tummy, over my pubic bone, and into the wetness, his other hand cupping a breast. My short nails bite into the flesh of his forearms—my grip fierce—as he kisses the daylights out of me, and I try to keep up with his tongue’s attack while dealing with the onslaught of pleasure.
I bend on a whimper, the pressure building immediately, flames and sparks ruling me. My hips roll, my body quakes, he tugs at the ring in my lip, scissors his fingers over my pulsing clitoris.
Gasping, I come all over his hand, cry out into his mouth, scratch desperately at his arms, forcing my body back into his. I’m given mere seconds to gather myself before I’m being pushed down to the bed front first. My knees sink into the mattress, my arse high, my chest and face flat on the sheets. I look across the bedroom, calm but apprehensive, hearing him unfasten his trousers. Remove his shirt. The rip of a condom wrapper. He takes my arms and holds them by my wrists at the top of my backside. The feel of him pushing against me cools the need slightly, and I close my eyes, dazed, accepting him, taking it all, slowly and surely, until I’m full to the hilt. I squeeze my eyes closed, dealing with the mild discomfort, as he holds himself deep, breaking me in gently, his spare hand stroking my arse cheek. His breathing is loud. My body screaming for movement is louder. But I’m too scared to speak again. To allow the wrong words to fall out in the throes of passion, to lose control of my mouth.
I really want to be here.
So I say nothing and simply listen to his breathing. My eyes ping open when I feel the pad of one of his fingers meet the nape of my neck. Covering the scar there. I wait for him to ask, my manufactured reason for the mar ready.
But he says nothing and drags that fingertip down my spine slowly, and with each inch it covers, I relax. He starts to roll his hips, not thrust or pump, just roll—firm and slow—and only when the pain eases does he pull out and drive forward again, like he’s sensed I’m ready for it.
My skin prickles, my body naturally following his movements, instinctively pushing back as he thrusts forward. I let my lips part, flex my hands where they’re secured, try to urgently catch air and fill my lungs.
He slips in and out.
In and out.
Slowly.
My blood simmers in my veins, rushing to my head.
In and out.
Measured.
My heart beats its way into my throat.
