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“What was last night?” Eight asked after a bit. There was something different in his voice, something she’d never heard in it before. His guard was down.
Marcella wasn’t ready to put hers down. She didn’t know if she should even try for that. Doing so required a measure of trust in Eight, and that was far too great a risk at this point. She had to be ready for him to bail, or otherwise betray her and her son. She had to be able to repair the damage if—when—Eight returned to form.
She brought her attention back to the large, anxious bald mountain overwhelming her son’s desk chair. “Fucking,” she answered, ignoring the whispering voice at the back of her head calling her out for a liar. Fucking was the safer, and thus the better, answer. “That’s all it ever was with us. I’ve never said I didn’t think you were an excellent fuck.”
Eight shook his head but didn’t respond otherwise.
Her heart thudded as she asked, “No? What was it, then?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.” He stood abruptly. “Nothing makes any damn sense, and I hate it. It’s turning my head inside out.”
Feeling vulnerable with his big body suddenly looming over her, Marcella stood, too, but she’d misjudged how close he actually was, and she came up barely an inch away from him. Close enough to feel his heat.
The same look entered his eyes as was there last night—confusion, desperation, need—and he grabbed her face in his rough hands, just the same.
Marcella’s body reacted just as it had last night—as if his touch were a vital, life-sustaining substance she’d been missing.
The worried voice in Marcella’s head, the angel on her shoulder, whatever, had been silent last night, but now it called out, telling her to step back, warning that if she gave in to this urge now, again, there’d be no turning back, and who the fuck knew what was waiting for her up ahead. With Eight, it couldn’t be good. She had to stay ready to repair his damage.
But he stood right there, the solid expanse of his chest like a wall before her eyes, still smelling of their sex and mingled sweat. His eyes stabbed into her, an intensity she could feel scorching through her, and her head was full of their wild sex last night, explosive orgasm after explosive orgasm, all of it without a single word, just bodies clashing in feral need.
She wanted more. He was right here, and she wanted more.
She grabbed his waistband and pulled him closer.
As he dropped his head, though, going for her mouth, she put a hand on his chest—damn, the feel of him—and pushed. “Not in here.”
He blinked, looked around, nodded.
“Come back to bed with me,” she said.
Eight searched her eyes. He dropped his hands from her face and took her hand, and they went back to her bedroom.
While he pushed out of his jeans, Marcella collected the pillows and blankets and put them back on the bed. As she undid the tie of her robe, she felt Eight step up behind her and take the silk in his hands, pulling it from her shoulders. He kissed one as the silk slipped down her body and to the floor.
It was a surprisingly tender thing for this decidedly untender man to do, and she turned, meaning to give him a sardonic look. But again, there was that wide-eyed vulnerability on his rugged face, and she couldn’t give him even a gentle poke.
If Eight was a tornado storming through the middle of her life, he was clearly tearing him up inside as well.
He put his hands on her bare shoulders and swept them downward, the skin of his palms like fine-grain sandpaper over her skin but working in reverse, raising goosebumps rather than smoothing them down.
Again, this wasn’t like Eight. When they’d been together, they’d been rough and wild, rough and fast, rough and playful, but never tender. Nothing they’d done together had ever been anywhere near the land of love. He’d grabbed her, tossed her around, had his way with her, and she’d scratched and bitten and pulled, had her way with him. Like last night.
This slow stroking, this hot, quiet stare, had her feeling nervy and vulnerable, and she reached up to hook her hand over the back of his neck, trying to force his head down, to change the mood back to what belonged between them.
But he resisted, reaching back to take her hand, bringing it forward to suck a finger into his mouth.
She tried to hook that finger, make it a claw, but he caught the joint between his thumb and forefinger, keeping it straight.
He wanted to be tender.
When he finally brought his head down, claiming her mouth, he took his time, brushing his lips lightly over hers, darting his tongue out, nudging lightly at the open seam between her lips. Eight had always kissed her like he meant to devour her, but this was a tasting.
A strange, disquieting quiver went through her chest and belly, settling low, making her pussy ache and her clit throb. She moaned, and Eight bent a little more, keeping claim of her mouth as he swept his arm around her legs, lifted her off the floor, and laid her on the bed, coming down to lie with her, on his side, at her side.
He put his mouth on her collarbone, then began forging a path downward. At her breasts, he paused and gave each one attention—but again tender, swirling his tongue around her areolae, flicking it over her nipples, until she squirmed and arched, seeking the rough weight she was used to. But he ignored her, pushing her grasping hands away, and worked downward, over her belly, spreading her legs and shifting over her, sliding his hands under her ass and lifting her up.
His mouth was on her clit then, licking and sucking, moving through her folds, probing her pussy, then farther. “Oh fuck yes,” she gasped, and, chuckling, he lifted higher, spread her wide and put his mouth on her ass.
