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For now, all I can focus on is trying not to maul her, every second, every breath.
“Don’t worry about it,” I growl, letting her hands drop.
We walk over to the bench together. She drops down and glances briefly at me, her eyebrows quirked. “He seems to love it.”
I sit down next to her, nodding. We’re not touching but I’m close enough to feel her heat, to smell her scent, for her body to scream out to the primal beast inside of me. The two of them communicate endlessly, ignoring our chatter, roaring at us to claim each other.
“I hoped he would. I bought it a while ago, years ago, actually.”
“And you’re only using it now? Why?”
I let out a breath, clenching my fists, as her question bounces around my head painfully. It’s like a blunt object barreling through me, causing me harm.
I care now, far more than I ever did before, about everything. Tanker and Millie aside, not writing has deadened me somewhat, numbed my senses to the point I’m like a cold heartless robot. Or a broken savage.
Or something, anything other than the writer I was.
“I got the toy for when I was writing. Tanker always insisted on being in the room with me. He can be a little attention seeker sometimes. So I got the toy in the hopes it would distract him as I was hammering out the words.”
“Did it work?” she asks, so softly, so innocently, with no idea about the torrent consuming me.
“It’s difficult to say,” I reply, keeping my eyes aimed forward, at the toy, at Tanker, at the gym.
I know it will do savage things to me if I allow my gaze to turn when I address her. I won’t be able to stop myself from stripping her dress with my mind, tearing her clothes off, until her needy pink tipped nipples are on display and her creamy reddening skin is out for me. And then I’ll tit-fuck her until she’s croaking and gasping, ripping an orgasm from me at the sensation of my cock against her breasts alone.
“Roman?” she whispers. “What is it?”
“I bought him the toy the day before my writer’s block hit me. I bought him the toy the day I finished my last novel. And the next day, when I sat down to get to work, nothing would come. I was empty. I’d run out of words.”
Chapter Seventeen
Rayla
He stares across the room, not really looking at Tanker or the toy or any of it. It’s more like he’s looking into the past. His eyes are clouded, grim, his jaw set tight. Every part of him is even more tense than usual, his shoulders wide, his back flexed and tight, the tendons in his neck taut.
He’s like a mass of barely-contained explosives, pulsing against the surface of his hot skin.
Or maybe that’s just my desire pulsing through me, telling me to reach over and claw onto his shoulder.
Maybe I could lie to myself and say I’m doing it for comfort, and not so I can feel how solid his body is, how capable of protecting me and our family he is.
“Is that what it was like?” I murmur. “The writer’s block? Like it struck you?”
“Like lightning,” he snarls, shaking his head slowly, as Tanker’s toy whirs and then snaps. “I never used to believe in writer’s block. I’ve written so many books, some of them in a couple of months, caught up in the frenzy of creation. But then the frenzy wouldn’t come. I felt like a goddamn Viking berserker without his battle ax.”
He chuckles darkly, shaking his head, squeezing and releasing his hands into fists.
“Maybe that’s what I need...Like Mom and Dad. Drugs.”
“No,” I say fiercely. “You can do it, Roman. Let me help.”
I make the offer because it feels like the right thing to do, but the notion of what I can actually do to help doesn’t rise up inside of me. It’s more like my body is directing my lips, telling me to make him happy, to help him in any way I can.
He looks at me intensely. He moves so quickly, his gaze snapping to me, as though I’ve just offered the cure to an exotic illness.
“You might be able to,” he says, with a note of excitement thrumming in his voice.
It’s contagious and I find myself sitting forward, staring at him like he’s the only person in existence. Nobody else is real. Nothing else matters. Only this moment and this man.
“How?”
“I had this idea. Maybe it’s crazy. Maybe it doesn’t make any sense.”
“What is it?” I say, unable to hide my eagerness.
His lips twitch, and he reaches over, tucking hair behind my ear. Our eyes meet and we both know what he’s doing, how dangerously close he is to stomping over the no sex stuff rule.
