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I barely held in a scream.

One of his hands was at my breast, kneading, plucking, rubbing. The other hand stayed between my legs, two of his fingers shoved into me. He pounded them in and out.

He did all of these things to me, all at once, and I lost all sense of time and reason.

I didn’t just come. I was moved. I felt. I yearned. Wanted. Coveted.

In that moment it was apparent to me that there was some sort visceral, primal connection between us. It was powerful and undeniable.

The way he touched me.

Kissed me.

Held me. Savored me.

Breathed me.

Like I was necessary for his next breath.

It was such a lie, but I needed it.

I’d been prepared to submit for his pleasure, to do whatever was necessary for it, but I had not been in any way prepared for my own.

I had assumed that since I’d been instructed that I was not ignorant.

Oh how wrong I’d been.

Finding my own stingy, small release in private was not the same animal as having it wrung out of me by his hands, his lips, his tongue.

I was mortified to find that the feelings he pulled from me were somehow more than physical. They messed with my chest. My head, too.

And they were powerful. I couldn’t reason myself out of them.

Somehow it was much more of a violation than the act of his body invading mine, this turning of my body and emotions against me. I’d never imagined this part of the arrangement, let alone agreed to it.

And just as soon as I came down from the high, out of body experience of coming so hard I forgot my own name, I promised myself I’d be resenting the hell out of him for it.

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

I was a boneless, thoughtless puddle on the bed. The only thing working were my eyes, and they followed his movements as he pulled away.

I hadn’t even noticed that he’d been fully clothed between my naked thighs until he started to strip.

He was moving with swift impatience, but it was still a good show.

He looked down as he worked impatiently at the buttons of his shirt. His hair fell forward, his lashes falling into thick shadows against his taut cheeks.

He was as handsome as a fallen angel with silky, inky black hair, and deep olive skin.

He shrugged out of his shirt. It was a sight, the powerful muscles of his shoulders working under his crisp white material as he worked. I drank in the sight of his ripped, tanned torso as he started working on his trousers.

I’d known that he was large and muscular, but his shoulders were stronger and wider than I’d imagined, hard muscles moving under his skin, jumping and flexing with his every movement. His chest was large and built, his pectorals swollen, his small brown nipples hardened into tight points. The hard ridges of his abdomen were starkly defined, his body arrowing down to hips that were a slim contrast to his wide shoulders. God, he was beautiful.

He wasn’t just a playboy or a businessman. He’d earned a body like that. He’d worked for it.

In reality I didn’t own any part of him, but in that moment I felt a keen, perverse thrill that this magnificent creature was my husband and that no one else had that honor.