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Her nails score against my flesh as my grasp on her hips tightens. Quite possibly, I’m leaving marks, but I can’t seem to stop myself. She rocks and grinds in the same motion, and I’m not sure if I should beg her to stop or plead for more. My brain has officially left the room, probably off to have a cigarette. I’m left with a burning desire to claim her and an ache in my chest where she seems to have rooted.
I’m close, teetering on the edge of sanity and oblivion. With each move she makes, she brings me closer to release, like the vixen she is. This wild and carefree vixen I can’t stop wanting. Needing.
She clenches my cock as her hips buck uncontrollably. My eyes start to cross and all I can do is hang on tight. I’m pleading with myself to not come, to sit back and enjoy the ride, but it’s impossible. Especially when she says, “I can’t get enough of you, Samuel.”
My name.
The way she says it, her voice dripping with seduction and confidence, as her orgasm washes through her, triggering my own release like a bomb. There’s no stopping or containing it.
My hips thrust upward, hard and fast, until I’m finally unable to move. Freedom’s lips claim mine, our gasps for air as tangled as our tongues. My hands finally release her hips and move to frame her face. Hair hangs over her eyes, soft, yet wet from sweat. Our bodies are pressed together, a fine sheen of sweat covering mine, which is something I can’t say has every happened before. Sex has never been so…aggressive. Nice, yes. Sweet, absolutely. But this raw, animalistic obsession that leaves me fulfilled and spent? Not so much.
Not until Freedom.
She pulls her lips from my own and rests her head on my shoulder, the slightest tickle from her breath caressing my neck. I hold her tightly against me, wishing we could stay just like this. Wishing things between us could be different. Not the sex. No, I wouldn’t change that for anything, but the confusion I feel because of it. My head still tells me to do the right thing, to step away and right the wrong we made in Las Vegas. But my heart? It’s telling me I’ve already found that right.
With her.
My back sags against the headboard as exhaustion sets in. I’m not sure if she’s sleeping or just that relaxed, but her lithe little body is practically limp against me. Carefully, I turn us sideways and pull from her body. She whimpers, but it doesn’t seem to be from pain or discomfort. Freedom clings to my chest, her breasts pressed tightly against me.
I move us until we’re both lying on the same pillow. Her dark hair is a striking contradiction to the soft white sheets, and for once, I seem to find a bit of peace in the paradox. She’s the splash of color against my compulsory white world. That thought doesn’t scare me as much as it used to.
Knowing I need to get up and dispose of the protection, I slowly pull myself from our embrace. Not by choice, by necessity. Freedom whimpers again, but her eyes remain closed as she burrows deeper into the bedding. With every step I take to the hallway and toward the bathroom, I’m drawn to the vision of her lying in my bed. One I want to return to as soon as possible.
After taking care of business in the bathroom, I grab a warm washcloth and return to my room. I ignore the hammering of my heart in my chest as I approach her. Her wild hair is splayed across her face, and as I gently move it from her forehead once more, I can’t get over how delicately soft her skin in. So different from her bold and brash personality.
Her eyes open and focus on me. She doesn’t say anything about me standing there, watching her rest, which I’m grateful for. I’m not sure what I’d say anyway. That I like watching her sleep? Especially when she’s in my bed? Yep, both of those things are true. I don’t tell her that, however. Instead, I don’t say anything as I pull the blankets back and gently clean her thighs, completely avoiding the intensity of her stare as she lies there.
As I’m finishing, I notice the redness of her hips. “My God, did I do that?” I ask, feeling instant guilt over the markings on her skin.
Freedom glances down and notices the finger imprints around her narrow hips. She doesn’t say a word, just reaches for the washcloth and tosses it on the floor. She takes my hand and pulls me back to bed, wrapping her leg around my hips and her arm around my stomach, her front pressed to my back. “Get out of your head,” she demands, her voice gravelly.
“What?” I ask, trying to turn so that I can see her.
She holds on tight, not allowing me to shift our positions. “You didn’t do anything to me I didn’t like.”
“But I hurt you.” My entire body seems to deflate.
“No, you didn’t. You didn’t hurt me at all, Samuel. You made me feel better than I’ve ever felt before. And those marks? They weren’t put there in punishment or for pain, right?”
Adamantly, I shake my head. “Of course not!”
“Exactly. I know that. Please don’t diminish what we did because you’re worried about a few fingermarks on my skin. I didn’t even feel it, and if anything, your grip on me only spurred me on.”
I stop and consider her words. She’s right, I know it. But that still doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad for marking her skin. I’ve never done that before—would never even consider it possible to do. Just another reason why I’m so out of my mind with Freedom. “I’m still sorry,” I tell her, relief washing over me.
“Please don’t be. In fact, I hope you do it again next time.”
Next time.
Will there be a next time? There shouldn’t be, but I’m learning I’m not that strong when it comes to fighting whatever pull is between us. I don’t seem to be capable of making sane, rational decisions where she’s concerned.
I hate that.
Instead of arguing, I find myself being pulled toward sleep. My body is exhausted, my mind reeling from what happened earlier. Even though I know I should shower, because I always shower at the end of the day, especially if sex is involved, but for some reason, I’m perfectly content to be wrapped in Freedom’s arms and lulled to sleep.
She sighs, her body relaxing around me. We’re in sort of a reverse spoon position, and I can tell the moment she drifts off to sleep. Her hand stops caressing my chest and her leg lies limp over my hip. Her breathing evens out against my ear as she murmurs my name.
My name.
