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Then it's the scrape of his nails against my skin. That perfect, sharp burst of pain.
He does it again. That same sharp scrape as he licks me exactly where I need him.
Again and again.
The knot inside me winds tighter and tighter.
Until it's too much to take. The pain and pleasure and control.
With the next brush of his tongue, I come.
My sex pulses. Pleasure spills through every inch of my body. All the way to my fingers and toes.
He works me through my orgasm. Then he stands. Pulls something from his back pocket.
A condom.
"Stay." He looks down at me as he undoes the button of his jeans. Pushes them off his hips.
Fuck, it's the first time I've seen this much of him in the light of day.
Those broad shoulders, the strong chest, the tattoo snaking around his ribs. That one is new. And there's something on his hip.
And he's—
Fuck.
He rolls the condom over his cock.
Brings his hands to my thighs. He holds me in place as he drives into me.
Fuck.
That feeling of his cock inside me—
I'm whole, I'm complete, I'm home.
Ty lifts my legs, holds them against his chest.
I'm not bound, not really, but I'm still at his mercy. I can barely move. Only to grab the table or rock my hips.
The table shakes as he fucks me.
My head hits the wood. My back. My ass.
Still, he holds me in place as he drives into me again and again.
He stretches my walls with every thrust.
It's intense.
Hard.
Rough.
Deep.
My eyes close. My head falls to one side.
He winds me tighter with every intense thrust.
Again and again.
So, so close.
His nails scrape my calves. Softly.
Then harder.
It's almost enough.
I'm almost—
"Touch yourself." His voice is all rough edges.
My eyes blink open. Meet his.
Fuck, the look on his face—completely in control, completely wild.
I slip my hand between my legs.
He holds me there, watching as I rub my clit.
Fuck. I'm almost there. I'm going to—"Please, Ty."
His nails scrape my skin.
"Please, sir. Please fuck me."
He stays in place for a moment, looking down at me, watching with rapt attention as I bring myself closer and closer.
Almost—
Almost—
Without warning, he drives into me.
I come instantly, my cunt pulsing against his cock, pulling him closer, deeper.
It pushes him over the edge.
He digs his nails into my thighs, groaning my name as he comes.
He thrusts through his orgasm, then he lowers my legs. He leaves me panting on the table as he does away with the condom.
Then he helps me up. Brings me to the shower—the one in his bedroom—and runs the water warm.
He gets in with me.
Stays there, in that perfect space, the two of us naked and spent and utterly without defenses.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ty
After we wash and dress, we watch a movie on the couch. Sabrina. One of her favorites.
She lingers through lunch and another cup of tea.
Then she leaves to meet her sister at school and walk her home.
It's sweet. How much she cares. How willing she is to do anything for her Sienna.
Indigo insists on taking the subway. I insist on walking her to the station. Kissing her goodbye on the quiet concrete street.
The Financial District is bustling—it's almost rush hour—but I don't feel the need to hustle.
I don't care that I'm underdressed.
That I'm supposed to be at work.
Only that she's leaving.
I head home, but the apartment is different without her. Wrong somehow.
I give her time. I work out in the gym downstairs. Fix dinner. Watch an old thriller.
My contact sends the proofs. Our photos on a gossip blog, going live at midnight.
I warn her.
Ask her to meet me at the office.
Tell her what to wear under her dress.
But not what I'm going to do with her. I save that thought for myself. It warms the space until it's too hot to bear.
Until I have to strip to nothing.
Think of her.
Resist the urge to fuck myself.
It's more fun, reveling in the sweet torture of anticipation.
All night.
As I get ready for work. Head to the office.
Find my brother waiting for me.
With the paper turned to Page Six and a look on his face that screams you really expect me to believe this bollocks.
Chapter Thirty
Ty
Ian is standing in the lobby, in a sleek black suit and fuchsia tie, the picture of calm composure.
He motions to a take-out cup on the counter. Cold brew. Black. Decked in a sleeve from the shop around the corner.
My favorite.
It can't be that bad. If he's bringing coffee and not the too sweet, too creamy English Breakfast our mother prefers.
It can't be that good either. The milky tea is a peace offering. A promise of mercy. Even when the recipient won't admit he needs it.
Five years ago, he divorced. I brought him milky English Breakfast every day.
After he fled the scene, moved to the States, returned only for quarterly meetings—
I brought him a cup every time.
He had to see his ex-wife. A cup of tea was the least I could do to ease that pain.
