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A derisive huff falls from those plump lips. “I let you gag me, fuck me in public, and attack me like a feral animal when I was covered in some asshole’s blood. You’ve proven your manhood.”
“It’s not about me,” I counter. “It’s about you. Trusting me. Submitting. Those other times you did that, but you’re still holding on to reservations about us. So, this is important too. Do you remember your safe word?”
“Yep.” She simmers with a boiling scowl. “Joker.”
“Good girl,” I praise. I chose that because only the joker stops the ace. In reality, I’d slaughter the fucking joker, but the idea serves its purpose. “So, you need to do what you’re told or quit with your safe word. Delaying obedience is the same as being defiant.” I’m pushing all her buttons now. Entertaining. Also necessary.
She crosses her arms over her rib cage, the action pushing her glorious breasts up further.
Gorgeous.
“So we’re clear, I only ever submit to you because I enjoy it, not because I have to. Any power you have is only because I’ve bestowed it upon you.”
That has a full-blown guffaw leaping from my lungs. Fuck, I love this girl.
Once I modulate my reaction, I dust my thumb over my bottom lip, drinking in every inch of her shimmery skin—flushed and furious. “Noted, Ace. Although that’s what all earned submission is—a decision to offer it—baby girl. I’d hate to coerce you into it. Where’s the fun in that? I’d much prefer we come to an understanding.”
When I’m confident her eyes are planted on me, I steer us back to the vital task. “Now, crawl the fuck to me, like a good girl.”
She flashes a coquettish smile, bats those curly lashes, and I brace myself for her sassy-ass tongue to quip something impudent. But like she so often does, she surprises me.
Her tone is threaded with a heartfelt curiosity. “If you don’t want to coerce me, what do you want from me, aside from just needing to be the one in control? Why ask me to submit at all?”
Everything fades away, and for the first time, I realize I haven’t been immune to hiding either. I’ve ignored my past, pretended it wielded no power over me, but that’s all a fabricated refuge. There’s one thing I want. Wells and the guys know it. Ivy calls me on it the most. But I never admit to it. Not even to myself. Maybe because I could ignore the craving with everyone else. But not with her. So, I offer the unfiltered truth through slow, crashing heartbeats.
“I want you to choose me.” Thump. “I need to see it.” Thrash. “To feel it.” Pound. “To believe it.”
Her fingers scratch over her throat, those demon doe eyes teeming with pools of answers, but she doesn’t tell me what’s swimming in them. No. She drops to her knees, slinks to all fours, and crawls across the room. Hips and tits swaying deliciously. It’s easily the most erotic sight of my life. My dripping rock-hard cock is proof.
But it’s so much more. She is so much fucking more.
Our gazes collide, locked through every steady plod forward. A lifetime of burden and insecurities splinters into the jagged pieces of all I’ve ever known, fleeing from my chest in an unexpected pardoning. Maybe she’s not the one being taught here. This has everything to do with me. Does she have any idea how she’s rammed through every wall I ever erected? How she’s become the stronghold I never thought I’d have?
Only her.
“Fuck, baby girl. You’re breathtaking. So pretty on your hands and knees for me.” The words tumble out in a clumsy reverence, but I’m not alone in that emotion.
Hers threatens to spill onto her cheeks, something monumental shifting between us. She knows exactly what this means to me. What she means to me. It’s all there.
The poetic mosaic of our shattered beginnings.
Our first night together by the pool, she told me that brokenness is the beginning. The root. The reason. I’d never thought of it that way—how a craggy spearing can be the catalyst to our rising from the carnage and rubble. My girl’s an insightful genius. It’s when I first noticed both the pain she harbored and the respect she had for it. A quality that made me fall for her.
Our days have been fraught with stress and torment, harm and healing. It’s not ideal. We haven’t had any normal couple time. I’m not sure that’s even possible with the life I lead. But it’s perfectly us. This moment is evidence. How else would we have gotten here?
As she crawls to my feet, I scoop her up onto my lap, wrapping myself around her as I temporarily abandon the rest of my lesson to simply hold her.
“That’s it, Carver. My precious girl,” I rasp into her hair, pulling back to cradle her face and press my lips to hers. It’s a slow and sweet devouring, my tongue tangling with hers in lazy probing, anxious to discover whatever is welling in her coffee-colored beauties.
Her arms curl over my shoulders, returning this leisurely exchange of transparency with a hint of fervor she can’t conceal.
“Do you get it now?” I ask, my forehead against hers, palm stroking her silky strands. “Feel it? How you’re my everything?”
“Yeah.” She rolls her lips in, always attempting to maintain composure. “I was just so scared.”
I’m not certain she’s referring to us because she’s been through far too much. Maybe this is still about her family, or maybe it’s because she’s connected to that damn book that is no doubt a gold mine worth killing over. Both issues I plan to remedy.
“Tell me,” I insist, situating her to straddle my thighs and nipping at her lower lip. “Why were you scared?”
