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“Oh God.” I arch my back, willing him on, the wildfire inside back with a vengeance.
He pushes into me on a grunt, sinking his fingers into my thighs. “And isn’t it fucking beautiful?” he asks, yanking me down onto him. The flames are fanned, the burn intensifying. I cry out, clawing at his forearms, trying to find my anchor. And that’s the thing with James. There is no anchor. Nothing to keep me grounded when he’s got his hands all over me, and that feeling of absent control is cathartic. It’s deliverance from evil. It’s the therapy I need.
I look at the ugly scars on my arm as James finds his pace, alternating between smooth grinds and hard hits, beating constant cries of ecstasy out of me.
“They’re not there,” he grunts, and I shoot my eyes to his. They’re glazed. His jaw is tight. He looks almost angry. “They’re not there.” He drives forward at an eyewatering speed, punching me deep. “They’re not there,” he whispers, retreating, the smooth flesh of his iron erection gliding with ease, stroking my walls. I look at my arm again. The scars have gone. I don’t see them. Don’t feel the pain that’s so fresh in my mind. He makes all the terrible disappear and replaces it with magic. “Look at me,” he demands, moving a hand to my throat, laying it there. I do as I’m bid, and the sight will never leave me.
He’s about to come. I want his release. For him. For me. The sight of him staring at me, holding his breath, his body rigid, every last muscle in his arms and chest protruding.
I lift my arms above my head, finding the edge of the counter behind me, and grip it tightly. I’m going to need it. “Come,” I order calmly, and he roars at the ceiling, his pace reaching maniac territory as he thrashes me repeatedly and mercilessly.
I’ve never seen anything so spellbinding. Never heard anything so poetic. He’s out of control, and I am in my element. I don’t need to orgasm. I just need to watch him.
“Fuck,” he chokes, sucking back air, his body vibrating violently, his skin slick with sweat. He collapses onto one hand, his head hanging, and he starts to grind firmly, hissing his way through his climax. I go limp, staring up at the ceiling, as the sensation of him filling me, of his cock pulsating against my walls as he releases, overwhelms my body.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say quietly, heaving, fighting for breath. “Who you are, who I am, it doesn’t matter.” I don’t want details. Don’t want to give them either. This. I just want this. Whenever I can have it, just this.
“What if I ever want to tell you?” he asks, bringing his front down to mine. His head lays on my chest, and I look at his dark waves.
“If it’ll change this, I want you to resist.”
“Is that a condition?”
“Of what?”
“Of you continuing to see me. You want nothing. Just this.”
“Just this,” I confirm.
“You sound like most men’s dream woman.”
“I’m no one’s dream,” I whisper. I’m their nightmare. So yes, this agreement works for me, because if I don’t know about him, he can’t know about me.
And as if he understands, he takes my deformed arm and kisses my scars. Such a gentle move, and I’m unsure whether I like it. “But I’m not most men,” James says, turning his stare up to me, holding his mouth to my arm. I look away, avoiding him seeing whatever it is he’s looking for in my eyes. “What about opera?”
I frown and look at him with curiosity. His chin’s now resting between my boobs. “Opera?”
“Yes. Is opera allowed?”
“Along with fucking?”
“With fucking,” he confirms, deadly serious. “Or escaping. Or disappearing. Call it what you will.”
I’m bemused. Opera? When I first met this man, he was frosty, unreadable. Now? “Are you asking me on a date?” James doesn’t seem like the kind of man to date. Opera, yes, I can see it. But dating?
“Do you want to call it a date?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
“But you want me to go to the opera with you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Don’t tell me he’s short of women ready to let him lavish them with his expert fucking and a touch of opera on the side.
His head drops tiredly, and he sighs. “Why not?”
“Because it falls outside the scope of our relationship.” And I can’t be in crowded spaces.
James swallows, and it looks like a patience-gathering move. “Fine. No opera.” He pushes himself up, and we both hiss as he slips free of me. “Here.” He unravels the sheets and starts to wipe the inside of my thighs meticulously, and I study him as he does, my fascination growing. But fascination should be avoided. It could lead to questions I don’t want answers to.
