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His cock jerks inside me, but his body doesn’t move. “Be careful what you wish for, baby.”
Shit. He’s right.
“Just…Don’t…Well….”
“Say it, Penelope. I can’t read you like this. When you’re thinking too much. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. When I do, you’ll forget everything. Then I won’t need your pretty little mouth to tell me what you want. Your body will.” He places a kiss right behind my ear. And just like in the books, that’s the spot.
“Slow, Jake. Fuck me slow. And touch me. Everywhere. I like when you touch me.”
He does just what I ask. Slow thrusts. Deep and measured. Hands all over me. Caressing this. Cupping that. Lips here. Tongue there. But something isn’t right. And though I know exactly what it is, and have known the entire time—thanks to that voice in my head—I can’t bring myself to say it.
I don’t want him to see me as weak. I don’t want him to know how bad he hurt me. And I’m not sure if that’s because I’m ashamed of how he made me feel, or because I don’t want him to regret making me feel that way.
“Talk to me, baby.”
God I want to.
“Just say it, gorgeous.”
Even the endearments aren’t helping.
He stills inside me. Kisses me softly. Looks at me even softer. Then the words I needed to hear fall from his lips like the sweetest kind of pained melody that has the power to twist you up inside and make you long for something you didn’t realize you were so desperate for.
“Trust me, Penelope. I’ve got you.”
Without giving it further thought, I surrender. And for the second time tonight, I give a little piece of myself to this man.
“I want this. But I don’t want to feel like I felt last night. That’s not who I am, Jake. I’m not…them.”
Them.
The Miss Sims.
The others.
The women before me.
The hired whores left alone on a couch.
Fucked and forgotten.
I may not mean more to him than they did.
I may not be more to him than they were.
But I can’t let him treat me like I’m just a piece of ass.
Not again.
He hasn’t said anything. Not a word. Just pinned me with that stoic, thoughtful gaze of his.
Fucking hell.
I knew better.
I flatten my hands against his chest and avert my eyes. “Look…I….” I let out a breath of nervous laughter. I hate being this exposed. This vulnerable.
Stupid fucking trust.
Stupid fucking voice.
Stupid fucking Penelope.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—“
He cuts me off with a kiss. A searing kiss that bruises my lips and completely negates the way he cradles my face in his hands like porcelain. It makes my head spin. His breath is controlled but a little harsh when he pulls away and whispers against my lips, “You are not them. Do you hear me?”
I nod.
He captures my mouth again. This kiss sweeter than the last. Softer. Slower. He wraps my hands around his neck. My legs around his waist. Keeps himself buried inside me as he stands with me in his arms. “You will never fucking be them.”
Every few steps he kisses me. My lips. My neck. Cheek. Nose. Corner of my mouth. Temple….
Gah.
Those temple kisses….
I kiss him too. His jaw. Ear. Chin. Neck. Mouth…that is now claiming mine. I’m dizzy with lust and swimming in warmth that has to do with something that has nothing to do with sex. But I don’t shake it away. I revel in it. I live in the moment. I let go so my pretty mouth doesn’t have to speak and my body can do the talking.
And I learn very quickly that I should let my body do the talking all the time.
I’m on a bed. A large hand pins my wrists over my head. The other touches me in that way I love to be touched. It slides down my chest, across my breast, over my ribs and curls around my hip.
I look down at the sight before me. The body above me. The wide, chiseled chest dusted in hair. Ripple of eight pack abs that disappear into the V. And beneath that V, the thick, beautiful—for a cock—shaft that slowly pulls almost all the way out of me. Then Jake lifts his hips, pulls me to him and drives back in.
Over and over. Until I can’t hold my head up anymore. Until I squeeze my eyes closed and move my body to meet his. Until I shatter beneath him when he tells me, “So fucking perfect.” And when he says, “I’m not through with you yet, gorgeous,” I mewl and cry and beg for mercy and more and something and everything until I have it all.
Mercy, when his thrusts become a little harsher so that the dull, distant, slow burning throb inside me becomes a crescendo.
More, when he shifts our bodies and finds that spot deep inside me so that the feeling is prolonged.
