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“Ride me.” Nick’s voice is gruff, roughened by need and annoyance.
I’m too horny to argue. I want to come around his cock, and as long as that happens, I honestly don’t care which position I’m in.
I shift until I’m straddling his thighs. He pulls me above him and fists his cock, guiding it to my entrance. I gasp when I feel the head push into my pussy, expecting him to slam inside me again. I’m unprepared for his hips to barely lift, for him to only slide in another inch.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please, Nick. I want you so badly.” The words spill out of me in a flood of naked honesty. I know I’m not just talking about now, about sex. I’m admitting what I’ve been avoiding.
I want Nick.
I want to fuck him. But I also want to kiss him and sleep next to him and buy birthday gifts. Dinners and dates and more kids and Christmas cards and vacations. I want to be happy and normal and whole. The white picket fence, golden retriever, minivan family.
And that’s something I can’t have with Nick.
Life with him would be looking over my shoulder and fear and armed guards.
He can’t walk away.
I can’t stay.
It hurts. It hurts so much. And it mixes with the maximum of bliss.
He slips in another inch. Then two more. I close my eyes and focus on the delicious stretch as gravity pulls me down and Nick pushes deeper.
“You take me so well,” he praises.
I open my eyes. There’s something tender in his expression, something that makes me think he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
He smiles, and I smile back, and then he spanks me, fracturing the poignant moment.
I hiss and rock against him as he slips out a couple of inches and then pounds back into me.
His hands roam my body, lingering on my breasts before sliding down my waist to my hips. He grips me tightly as he thrusts upward, pushing even deeper inside of me. His thumb finds my clit, rubbing tiny circles that drive me closer and closer to the edge while he watches his dick disappear inside of me.
We fall into a familiar rhythm as we crash together, the slap of skin and moans and grunts filling the room. I hold on for as long as I can, pushing the pleasure away, because as much as I crave the orgasm, I hate the end. I hate the distance and the reality and the finality.
But it’s too much. Too consuming. Too powerful. Too commanding. My inner muscles convulse, tightening around the cock filling me. My release explodes inside of me, a surge of heat that spirals and spreads.
Nick’s hold on me tightens. I watch his eyes close and his jaw tighten and his abs clench. Feel him swell and jerk inside of me as he comes.
Blissful remnants are still swimming through my bloodstream when I move away and lie down beside him.
A few seconds later, I hear the rustle of him moving. Probably taking care of the condom, deciding how to deal with the aftermath. My eyes flutter closed, shutting out everything. They fly back open when Nick scoops me up off the bed and starts walking, carrying me bridal-style. I think he’s heading to the hallway, intending to deposit me back in my room. But instead, he walks into the bathroom.
The lights flicker on automatically.
Nick walks straight into the shower. He sets me down slowly. Unwillingly. Then, he turns on the spray, blocking the water until it runs warm. I lean against the cool tile, watching him with some mixture of fascination and wariness, until he puts a hand on my waist and tugs me toward him.
He has one of those fancy showerheads that feels like a waterfall or the perfect amount of rain. Warm water saturates my hair and begins dripping down my face. Pelts my skin and warms my body. And then Nick is massaging something that smells like rosemary and mint into my hair before washing my arms and my breasts. My stomach and between my legs.
Despite the fact that we’re both naked and he’s touching me intimately, it’s more sweet than sexual, which wreaks havoc on my heart.
The darkness and the moodiness excite me. Arouse me. But it’s not real or sustainable. This thoughtful care—the kind I’ve always craved and never received—isn’t supposed to come from the man who I watched wash off blood in this very spot.
I’ve met plenty of people who I felt I could rely upon—kind, trustworthy people, like June and Michael—but I’ve never had anyone I could lean on the way Nick is supporting me right now.
I don’t think Nick is a bad person. But I know he’s done bad things. And any attempt to parse out a difference between who he is and what he’s done would be a disguise for selfishness.
But it doesn’t keep me from filling my palm with the rosemary-mint shower gel and covering him with suds.
