A razor-sharp handprint stings my ass cheek.
“Get that fucking ass in the air, for me.”
I barely have time to get in position, my forearms flat, knees spread as far as my pants around my calves will allow, and thecrown of his cock is already nudging at my dripping entrance. He moves, sliding it in inch by inch, giving me time to adjust, my cum easing the way.
“I’m so,so, good, Tate. You can … can fuck me hard.” I want to feel him. Be full of my husband.
He glides in the rest of the way, his hips meeting my ass. He rocks his pelvis, dick throbbing inside me as the wet slaps echo through the trees.
“Look at you,” he says as he pumps faster. That luscious cock of his fucking in and out of me. “Knees in the dirt, ass begging for it. You need me so bad, don’t you, dollface?”
“Always.”
“Fuck, you make me delirious. I can’t even … I’m gonna …” Whatever he was going to say fades into theslap, slap, slapof skin on skin, his pelvis smacking the hell out of my ass. He freezes, and a breathy groan shudders from him as he comes. More cum drips out of me with his movements, making a mess out of my thighs. “Fucking,whoa, baby. You have no idea how good that was.”
My head falls between my forearms, and my ribcage shakes with laughter I try not to let him see. “I have some idea,” I say.
“No, really,” he insists as he fiddles back there, painting my inner thighs with us—his cum and mine—before he pulls my pants up for me. “We are doing that again. So many times.”
He pulls me on top of him, lying on his back on the hard forest floor, slipping his hand inside my jacket to find my heartbeat again. “You’re, like, totally the best thing ever.”
I laugh some more. This drug has turned my man into a valley girl. Wait till I tell him later.
“I’m so fucking in love with you, dollface,” he murmurs into my hair.
My heart trips over itself. He … he what? It’s the drugs. He’s got to be on the most fucked up of cocktails to keep him high forfour days. He doesn’t mean that. Tate made it clear: he doesn’t know how to love.
Although I feel hella loved right now. Is there any harm in going with it? Just like the rest of this fever dream …
“I think I’ve been in love with you since the moment I sucked your dick in the forest.”
He laughs. “No, it wasn’t then.”
“You’re such an ass. You’re going to tell me when I fell in love with you?”
“It was when I abducted Kline—you knew the lengths I’d go for you,” he says, his voice wistful in a way Tate’s never is, honeyed by whatever’s pulsing in his veins. “It was my love letter to you, and you loved it.”
I can’t even tell him he’s wrong. Besides, Tate is too expert at puzzling out other people. He would have thought about it and done the things he knew would resonate with me.
Is that manipulation or deciphering someone’s love language so you can speak it? It’s a fine line. But Tate’s been honest about it. He’s never hidden it when he’s done something to gain my favor.
“You let Kline go.”
“I did,” he says. “But he’s a walking dead man. Once he’s served his purpose, I’ll dispose of him.”
“You’ll kill him?”
“He touched you,” he says as if it’s self-explanatory.
“Then why let him go?” It doesn’t make sense.
“I … huh. Can’t remember, baby.”
“They took Griff,” I say, jaw tight.
“I’ll get him back for you, baby.”
I don’t know if he can. “Did you know? Did Kline talk about who his sons were?”
