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I moved again, holding her hips as I positioned myself, then pushed into her, a groan escaping me at the feel of her hot flesh parting around mine, only to grip me tight, holding me inside her. Welcoming me. She was slick and tight and perfect. I slid my hands beneath the softness of her rear, tilting her so I could go deeper, making both of us gasp.
Then I was moving, unable to stop, my mouth on hers, kissing her harder as I moved inside her, a relentless and intoxicating pleasure driving me on.
Her nails dug into my shoulders and I relished it, glorying in how she could be as demanding as I was, her passion burning hot and strong.
I poured myself into her, all my pain and my rage, and she took it and changed it, giving me back only ecstasy and heat and wild passion.
It was magic. It was like nothing I’d ever had from anyone in my entire life. It was too much.
I slipped my hand down between her thighs, giving her back what I could before all conscious thought left me and I was driving myself deep into her, hard and fast, feeling her convulse around me as the climax took her and she screamed my name.
And then I followed, annihilated by the pleasure that swept over me with all the force of a tidal wave, knocking me over and pulling me under.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jenny
ILAYBENEATHHIM, parts of me utterly shattered while other parts of me were hungry for more. And yet my heart ached.
He’d lowered his head, his face turned against my neck, his warm breath ghosting over my skin. He was a heavy weight on me, pinning me to the couch, but I didn’t mind it. I never had. Beneath him I felt safe and secure, as if he was sheltering me from the world.
Except...who sheltered him? Had he ever had anyone? Had he ever had someone who’d brought him the same kind of solace and understanding he’d brought me? I had tried, but from what he’d said about his childhood I knew it hadn’t been enough.
I ran my fingers through his short, thick black hair. It felt like raw silk against my skin. My body might feel utterly sated, but inside I hurt.
I hurt for him.
I’d always wondered why my mother had sent me away to boarding school, and I’d assumed it was because she hadn’t wanted me around. I hadn’t realised—and why would I?—that she’d sent me away to protect me from Domingo.
That made sense, given what I now knew about him. But my safety paled in comparison to the realisation of what it had meant for Constantine.
His father had been a psychopath, using him and his brother. Using their bond to hurt them and manipulate them. And all the while denying them all the things a child needed in order to grow.
No friends. No pets. Not even any toys.
I couldn’t imagine it. It horrified me to my core. Yet it also explained things. Con had said it was safer for him not to feel anything at all, and I could see now why he thought that. Why he’d always been so distant and so cold. Why it had always seemed as if he was armouring himself. Because he had been. He’d been armouring himself against his father.
I’d stayed out of Domingo’s way, mostly, but whenever I’d noticed Con getting very tense around him, I’d tried my best to distract him. Domingo had never responded to my attempts to befriend him, shaking me off as if I was insect and walking away. I’d never discovered why I’d made him so uncomfortable, yet I felt pleased about it now. If only I’d known at the time I would have tried even harder to make sure Domingo stayed away.
Con had relaxed, his big body covering me like a heavy warm blanket. All the tension from before had bled out of him and now he lay on me unmoving.
Out of his suit he was a glorious specimen of manhood. Wide shoulders, broad chest and chiselled abs, all that muscled power covered with smooth, velvety olive skin.
Touching him was a delight and I didn’t deny myself, dropping my hand from his hair to stroke down his back.
‘I’m sorry.’ My voice sounded thick in the heavy silence. ‘I’m so sorry you had such a dreadful childhood.’ It was a useless thing to say, but I couldn’t think of anything else. And I wanted him to know that I felt for him.
He let out a long breath, its warmth chasing over my skin, and I thought he might move. Might cover himself in ice, detach himself once again. But he didn’t.
‘You do not know how much I valued your friendship, Jenny Grey,’ he murmured. ‘You were the first friend I ever had.’
Tears rose in my eyes at the realisation of what that must have meant for him. ‘I was?’ I asked shakily.
‘Yes.’ And then, as I was recovering from that, he added, almost casually, ‘Valentin has come back.’
I went still. ‘What? No, Valentin’s dead. You told me that—’
‘He’s not dead.’
