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His lips clamped on to my neck, and he sucked. Hard. He’d probably leave a mark, but I didn’t care.
I wanted to be marked. Wanted to be branded.
Wanted to be his.
Breathless moans escaped my throat as my hunger increased.
Ravenous. I was ravenous.
Ravenous for this man I loved. Ravenous for his body inside mine.
Ravenous for everything Bryce Simpson.
He broke away, panting. “Inside. Now.”
I could argue. This would make everything harder. I knew that.
But I didn’t have it in me. I needed this. Needed him. Needed all of it.
I opened the passenger door of his car and exited.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bryce
I’d vowed never to return to this cabin.
I hadn’t been here in ages, not since college, at least. Once I became an adult, the camping and fishing adventures with my father had stopped. He’d told me I could use the cabin, but I never had.
Now, looking back, I wondered why. This place had been full of happy memories—memories that had only recently become tainted.
I jostled my keys until I found the right one. A key I’d had for a long time but hadn’t used until now.
What would I find inside?
All these thoughts jumbled in my head, but one thing overshadowed them.
Marjorie Steel.
My aching need for Marjorie Steel.
Once the door was open, I grabbed her and pushed her inside. Darkness had already fallen, and the light switch didn’t work. Within a few minutes, my eyes had adjusted. The cabin had one great room with furniture, a small kitchen area, and two bedrooms. One bathroom for the whole place.
There was a fireplace and matches and logs, but I couldn’t be bothered to start a fire. Not yet. Not when my need was this great.
I dragged Marjorie to one of the bedrooms—the one Joe and I had used. Two twin beds still sat in the room, still covered in the same quilts I remembered. How old were those quilts? They might disintegrate if we so much as looked at them.
I didn’t care. I pulled her to me and kissed her—deeply, passionately, emotionally. She tasted of sweetness and lust, of fresh berries and mint. Of Marjorie. Pure, sweet Marjorie.
This place was certainly no Paris, but it was an escape nonetheless. For me, at least, and probably for both of us.
I knew how much she wanted me. Loved me. Indeed, I’d heard her say the words. Even now, I wasn’t sure she was aware she’d said them. She’d been in the midst of multiple climaxes, and I knew well what went through my mind when I shared an orgasm with her.
Many times I’d thought those three little words. Words so painless to utter yet so painful to deal with.
For I couldn’t love anyone, not when I wasn’t whole.
Marjorie deserved whole.
