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He hovers over me, looking larger than life, but that doesn’t last too long when his body slowly lowers to mine.
My palms flatten on his shoulders and I suck in a sharp breath at how good he feels, shirtless, just for me.
Showing his tattoos only to me.
I never thought such a trivial thing would make me so elated, so ethereal.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” I ask in a low voice, stroking my fingers on his skin like a junkie who’s toying with a drug before inhaling it.
“Not when you’re distracting as bloody hell.” He reaches a hand between my legs and a deep grunt leaves him when his fingers are coated with both our arousal. “Fuck, beautiful. Mmm. This might be my new favorite thing.”
Before I can ask what that is, he gathers his cum with two fingers and thrusts inside me. A moan rips out of me, though it shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t be feeling this turned on by the act of him smearing his seed inside me, but I am and the guttural sounds that leave me are foreign to my ears.
He does it leisurely, fucking his fingers inside me with purpose.
“You look fucking beautiful with my cum in this tight cunt.”
“Please…”
“You want more?”
My nod is barely intelligible, but he catches it and he’s about to flip me to my stomach. This is what he does when he fucks me, always from behind.
I’m used to it after all this time, but I don’t want that now. I don’t want the distance.
I want him to show me the rest of him as he did with his tattoos.
I want him. Period.
So I dig my short nails into his skin, holding on to a hope I shouldn’t be having.
I’m hoping and buzzing with wishes that have no place in whatever relationship we have.
His hand finds my hip, which is his cue to turn me onto my stomach. My nails dig into his skin and I slowly shake my head.
The thrusting of his fingers slows until it’s an agonizing ache that’s torturous. But his features darken, his eyes turning a molten hazel that’s the weirdest I’ve seen.
His hold on my hip is as tight as his face, urging me to release him, but I don’t.
I can’t.
I don’t want to.
“Let go.” It’s two words. Two single words, but they sound non-negotiable and harsh.
When I don’t, he effortlessly removes my fingers from his shoulder, then easily flips me over. My breasts flatten against the sofa and my body heats so fast that it feels like I’ve been set on fire while being doused in gasoline.
Strange energy rushes through me, demanding I kick and fight, that I hit and claw.
Something.Anything.As long as I’m not in this position, beneath him, where he doesn’t want to look at me.
I think I must’ve moved, because when he gets behind me, he feels stiff, hard almost, as if he’s seeing my inner turmoil.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” His tone is clipped, which is the tone he only uses when he’s mad.
And he shouldn’t be right now.
