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Nonetheless, he sounds like he means it.
When he says he loves me, it sounds real. I want to believe it. No, I need to, or else what was all of this for? I know what this is, except I’m afraid to believe it. That’s the problem. It could be another game. Another level to the mental torment he puts me through. Will I shoot him if he says he loves me? And what if I did? Where would that get him?
None of it makes sense, but then again, nothing about him ever has.
“Pull the trigger,” he whispers, the fight draining from his voice. He sounds sad, like he's giving in to the inevitable.
“You know I won't.” I still grasp the butt of the gun without taking my finger off the trigger. “I can't.”
All that leaves is the two of us staring into each other's eyes, both of us panting, and I don't know what to do. I don't know what to think. I didn't come here for any of this. “I only want the truth. That’s why I came here. I need to figure everything out, and I can’t keep running away from my problems, hoping they’ll disappear.”
I’m tired, so tired.
“You want the truth?” In a flash, he takes the gun from me and sets it aside, then buries his other hand in my hair. He’s cradling my head in both his hands now. “I told you the truth. It's the only truth I know. You've destroyed me—and the worst part is, all I want is more. More of you. More of us.”
He leans in, pressing his forehead to mine before a shudder runs through him. “Look what you've done to me.”
What I’ve done to him? There’s not enough time to go through everything he’s done to me. The way he’s turned everything upside down. Made me hate myself. Left me questioning who I am. My loyalties and what I will and won’t stand for.
What I’m willing to let somebody do to me.
How many times I’ll come back for more.
Similar to right now, sitting on this desk, the man forces me to put a gun to his chest. All the while, I simply want to strain the extra inch and press my lips to his. I want to kiss him as hard as I can. I crave the sensation of my lips bruising under his.
“Bianca…” He pulls back just enough to peer into my eyes. “I need you. Don’t make me beg for this. Please.”
His hands slide over my neck, then my shoulders. I can’t pretend my flesh doesn’t tingle beneath his touch. His fingers press into my skin when he can no longer hold back the desire. His need to claim me is just as strong as my need to be claimed. It’s like a veil has been lifted, and I can see everything that used to be so foggy.
When his head darts forward and his mouth covers mine, I melt like ice under a flame, clawing at him like a wild animal. This is the only time things make sense, when he’s kissing me. When his hands roam my body and memorize every inch.
He works my thin cardigan over my shoulders, then loses his patience and yanks it off along with the tank top underneath. Pulling them both off over my head, he buries his face between my breasts. The slight scruff of his beard prickles against my skin. The way he grunts while peppering kisses across my throat and collarbone as I grind against his thigh that’s still wedged between my legs.
How is it always like this? We’re explosive together. It takes nothing for him to light the match and set my soul on fire. Every kiss, every touch makes me crave more. I can lose myself in him completely, and that’s what I need most. To lose myself and forget everything else.
“That’s right,” he mewls, panting, before sliding his tongue under my bra to lap at my nipple. A moan rips from my throat. “Fuck, I’ve waited so long for this moment, Bianca. It’s been torture waiting for you. Hoping you see it.”
He presses firmer against my pussy and I grind further down on him, frantic to ease the tension that only gets worse with every touch. Reaching behind me, he unclasps my bra and tosses it aside before pushing me back flat against the desk.
“Made for me,” he murmurs, his huge hands cupping my breasts. His touch has the power to turn me to ash, to burn me to embers. He’s right. I was made for him. That’s the only way to explain how my pussy instantly floods at the slightest brush of his fingertips. The musky scent of his cologne. The sound of his voice. I was made for him—and he was made for me.
