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"Are you going to talk all night or fuck me now?" she moaned. His gaze flared, his body tightening further. Drawing back, he pushed in hard, fast. Mikayla felt the scream that tore from her lips as pleasure began to slam inside her with the same force of the thrusts of his cock working inside her. She watched him lose control. The cords of his neck tightened, standing out in stark relief as sweat began to bead on his forehead and shoulders. His hips began to move faster, stronger, his cock stretching her with a fiery burn as he impaled her to the hilt. She felt his balls pressed against her for only a second. She felt his cock throbbing at her innermost walls for the smallest amount of time.
Pain and pleasure beat inside her, the burn both exhilarating and unbearable. Striking hard inside her, the flaming sensations began to explode and rupture through her pussy, her clit, her very womb. The orgasm was a detonation that sent a tidal wave of pure white-hot sensation tearing through her.
It destroyed her. It remade her. It flowed through her, wrapped around her, and as she felt Nik bucking hard and heavy inside her, his semen spurting, it swamped her senses and seared each delicate nerve ending in her body.
It was like dying and being reborn.
Collapsing back against her table, Mikayla fought to catch her breath, to find a semblance of sanity where she was certain no sanity could be found. As the last of the tremors began to slowly recede inside her, Mikayla lifted her lashes, staring up as Nik slowly levered himself from her.
"Nik." She stopped him, her hand lifting weakly to her face. "If you do this without me, then whatever we have between us will be damaged."
"And no doubt, it would be best for both of us if it were simply destroyed." She stared back at him, something crashing inside her chest, restricting her heart as she felt him ease from her, the still-hard length of his cock deserting her, just as the warmth of his body did.
She couldn't speak.
She couldn't hold on to the pain that bloomed inside her with the force of a blow. And she couldn't stop the tears from filling her eyes. They didn't fall. She would be damned if she was going to cry for him. She wasn't
going to cry over him. She felt sick inside. Her stomach was cramping with the pain, with the tears that wanted to fall.
Lifting herself slowly from the table, she ignored him, aware of him watching her, aware of the dark, brutal grief that reflected in his gaze. A grief that built inside her with a force she couldn't fight.
She was going to cry.
It almost tore free. It almost bled inside her.
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"Mikayla." He caught her as she turned to rush from the room.
"Don't." Desperation shuddered through her. "Let me go."
"You don't understand," he whispered. "Listen to me, Mikayla. You don't know who I am. You don't know what I am. Don't love me, baby. Don't hurt us both like this." She shook her head. How was she supposed to answer him? How was she supposed to survive the pain inside her when she knew that whatever it was that kept tugging them closer was something he wanted destroyed. He didn't want whatever she had to give. She had been right in what she had said before: he wanted nothing but the fuck.
"I can't let this happen." His voice was hardening.
"Then don't."
Jerking away from him, naked, fighting back tears, she rushed from the sewing room for the safety of her bedroom.
In that moment she realized she had been hoping. Hoping so much. A part of her had been hiding that hope even from herself. A hope that Nik would at least allow a small measure of what she felt into his heart.
Just a little bit. She wasn't asking for much. Just enough that maybe he would think of her when he was gone. That maybe, oh God, maybe one day he would come back to her.
Rushing to the bathroom, she closed the door behind her, flattened her back to it, and let the first tear fall.
She wasn't going to cry for him. She was crying for herself.
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Chapter 21
As Ian and Kira arrived at the house more than an hour later, Nik watched Mikayla warily. She was composed, no hint of the tears he knew she had shed in her eyes, and no hint of the anger.
It was as if what had happened in the sewing room, the pleasure, the pain, the nightmares resurfacing inside his mind, had never occurred.
But evidently his own composure wasn't nearly as strong as he thought.
"What's going on, Renegade?" Ian asked as they moved onto the back deck with a beer.
