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When his eyes drop to my lips, I smirk. “There you go, looking like you want to kiss me again.”
He rasps out a laugh. “Nah. Just wondering what they’d look like wrapped around my cock.”
Flustered, I try to twist my face from his grip, but it only tightens on my jaw. I’ve never donethatbefore, and the thought of being shit at it for him makes me cringe. It’s clearly written all over my face, because his eyes narrow and his hips slow. “You haven’t done that either?”
“I’m saving blow jobs for marriage,” I blurt out.
His eyes flash black, and he slams into me a little harder. “Liar. You don’t believe in marriage.”
“True,” I breathe out, lifting my knees so he can get even deeper. White sparks fly behind my eyes. I’mso close.“Marriage is a losing game, darling.”
His dark laugh skitters over my lips. “Yeah? What would you lose?”
“My freedom. My dignity. Mypride.”
He shakes his head again, smirking in disbelief. Glancing at my nails digging into his bicep, he drops his hand to my clit, rubbing in small, taunting circles. My toes curl up, and if it wasn’t for his iron-clad grip on my face, I’d tilt my head back and cry to the pouring heavens.
Instead, I can only lock eyes with him as he picks me apart at the seams. His stare is different now, something pensive dampening the lust. “And what would I lose?”
I swallow. “If…wegot married?”
Christ, even in a hypothetical situation, those words taste weird in my mouth.
He slides into me, but halts then holds himself there. Stops teasing my clit. Still and silent, he nods.
I breathe out shakily. “You’d lose half your shit when I take it from you in the divorce.”
He stares at me for a moment, before grinding out a laugh of disbelief. “I suddenly remembered why I prefer your head buried in a pillow when we fuck,” he growls, “You talk too much.”
His hand moves from my jaw to my mouth, muffling my moans with his palm. I struggle against his restraint, only because he watches me with fascination when I do. The unadulterated lust in his expression and the hot, heavy weight of him against me sends me over the edge.
My orgasm is aggressive and bone-shaking, sweeping through me like a hurricane that doesn’t care about the destruction it leaves in its wake.
When I float down, my senses sharpen enough to realize he’s completely motionless. My next breath wets his palm. He removes it and runs a finger across my bottom lip, his eyes tracking the motion. When he looks back up at me, his expression is somber. Something about it tightens my chest. I don’t dare breathe, let alone crack a joke.
Just as the tension starts to scorch, he thrusts into me again, slow and searing. He falls into a rhythm but doesn’t pick up pace. Not when I tilt my hips, nor when I tighten my thighs around his waist.
He fucks me slowly. Fucks me steadily. And as his fingers skim a gently path down my side, an awful realization settles on my chest: we’re not fucking at all.
There’s another name for what thisis, and it doesn’t belong to us. It’s permanent to our temporary; serious to our casual.
By the time his stomach tenses against mine and he fills me with his warmth, I’m biting down the emotion in my throat. And when his breathing slows back to normal, the realization seems to hit him too.
He glances out at the storm. Runs a hand over the back of his neck. He pushes away and, despite feeling sick, I reach out and grab his wrist before he disappears completely, because somehow, that seems worse.
His gaze hesitates on the watch on my wrist, then skims up my arm and lands on my face.
I swallow. “Bet you a hundred dollars I’ll beat you at Mario Kart.”
We listen to the hammering of the rain. Finally, he nods. “Make it two hundred and you have a deal.”
I watch his inked back flex as he jumps out of the hot tub and grabs me a towel from the side.
We both know I won’t win, but I’d rather lose that game than this one.
Twinklinglightspulsateonthe Christmas tree; stockings swing above the roaring fireplace. The scent from all the cinnamon and clove candles hangs above the table in a festive haze.
My brother’s dining room has been transformed into a fucking greeting card.
