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My belly does a slow roll as I try to stitch this information into what I know of his mum, which is merely that she passed.
“Christmas before my mom died,” he says evenly.
I inhale slowly. “I’m glad you won. Who schooled you on your techniques?”
He lifts his brows, making his forehead crease. “I played with some friends from school.”
I run a hand through my hair, then pull out the hair band and re-gath
er it. “Who was your dearest friend there? What was he like? Or she, I suppose.” I feel that it’s safer to shift topic.
As I’m speaking, though, his face is losing color.
“Never mind…”
His eyes fix on mine, unblinking for a long moment. He looks near robotic.
“No. It’s fine.” The words are odd, though—slow and soft. He looks at me for a moment—this look of concentration. After that, his face softens a bit.
“His name was Nate.” The words come slightly slow, but sound near normal. “He was the one I talked about, from Texas.”
I can feel my cheeks burn, as they do when I feel anything—in this case, regret for asking. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.
He inhales, a quiet but fortifying breath. I can tell he’s working hard to appear unemotional.
“Nothing to be sorry for.” He stands stiffly. “I’ll be right back, Siren.”
He returns from what I suppose is the bathroom a few minutes later. We carry on about our night as if it’s ordinary times. I teach him knitting, and he seems to enjoy it. Before bed, we don’t make love, but then sometimes we don’t. When we go to sleep, he’s wrapped around me, just as usual.
I sleep soundly, I suppose, for I don’t hear him leave the bed. When I awaken, it’s pre-dawn. I hear the shower running. That’s odd. I wait up for when he’s out. I want to touch him…feel his arms around me.
Instead, when he returns to bed, his skin damp and warm, his hair dripping, he looks into my eyes for one long moment, then turns me around so I’m facing the headboard. His fingers slide into me from behind. His free hand grips my backside. I wait for his low voice, for his filthy, whispered words—he likes to goad me, and I like to clap back—but there’s none of that this time. Merely the ripping of a condom wrapper.
Moments later, he’s pressed at my entrance—prodding so deliciously, I can’t help moaning. He shifts his hips, and then he’s pushing inside. I gasp as he enters. It feels different in this position, much more visceral.
I feel a tremor in him as he buries his thick sex deeply in me. He’s so large. I feel so tight around him.
“You feel so good.” I wait for those words—for any words.
His hand squeezes my hip. His fingers rub my clit. And then he starts to thrust. It’s slow at first, then faster as I bear back toward him. His hand strokes along my back, and then his fist cinches my hair.
I gasp at that. His hand slackens. He stops thrusting.
I groan, “More!”
He fills me so deeply, I cry out. Then his hand grips my hair again.
Eight
Declan
“People are stupid and naive. Do you think this is about love?”
The voice is so crisp and clear, so goddamn loud, it rips me from sleep. I bolt upright, panting as the motion tosses Finley off me.
OH, FUCK.
Just a nightmare.
