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Which almost made me stutter. This glimpse of the new Luke, the bad Luke, who was going to take me hard and rough and drew my blood and liked it—no, loved it when I drew his.
But then he yanked my hand to the hardness straining from his jeans and all my feelings of guilt disappeared, swallowed by the power of my desire. I was desperate, feral almost, as I yanked at his belt buckle, a small sting in my forefinger telling me I’d broken a nail getting it loose. Not that it mattered. Not when I was freeing him in all his glory.
I caressed him for a moment, freeing him from jeans but leaving them on. He grunted as my hands ran over the smooth and hard flesh. And then they weren’t anymore, one of his hands circling my wrist, yanking it away from him. The other made short work of his jeans and then somehow—maybe I collapsed, maybe he pushed me down—we were on the floor. And then he was inside me.
Both of us stilled on that first thrust, all the ferocity of before disappearing. He just stayed there, inside me, both physically and emotionally, stare locked on mine. The moment that passed was not one fueled by aggressive and almost-crazed desire. This lucidity was almost painful in its exquisiteness, in the way we passed a million words in that one glance, acknowledging how long this had been in coming, about how perfect it was.
About how this should never have happened. About how imperfect it was.
And I wanted to throw away all those other moments I’d snatched from between us so I could make room for this one. Steal it out of the present and store it to become my ultimate treasure.
But I didn’t have time.
Because his lips were on mine.
And then he moved.
And then there was no room for coherent thought.
There was room for nothing but our bodies and our passion, and for once, simplicity.
But all good things come to an end. And the worst ones too. I just couldn’t figure out which one this was.
I came to my senses quickly. Well, after five orgasms. But after a handful of hours with a man who could give five orgasms, one could describe that as quick. Because most women, most sane women, would hold onto that, not let it go after a mere few hours. No, a sane woman would put a fucking ring on that shit.
It had been well established that I wasn’t sane.
Therefore, the first words spoken from my mouth after some of the most beautiful hours of my entire life showed me and the world—the world being Luke—how fucking off the reservation I was.
“This was a mistake.”
Luke’s hand, which had been lazily drawing circles on the underside of my breast, froze. His head, which had been very intently inspecting the underside of my breast, moved too.
His expression was unreadable as his glacial stare locked with mine. “Say again?”
I pushed him off me. Or at least tried to. Luke was on top of me, much stronger and therefore in control. He did not let me push him off me. The old Luke would have. No matter how much it pissed him off, my small gesture would’ve been taken as an order to his morals to get off the woman he was using his strength against.
This was not the old Luke.
“Get off me,” I ordered.
His stare remained cold. “No fucking way.”
“Luke.”
“Rosie.”
I glared at him. He glared right back at me.
“You’re really going to keep me here for the rest of my life, Luke?” I snapped.
He didn’t move. “No, just for however long it takes to talk, or fuck, some sense into you.”
The extremely sensitive part between my legs jumped at the pure sex in his tone. Who was I kidding—all of me jumped at the pure sex in his tone.
But I couldn’t waver.
I knew I couldn’t.
“Newsflash, Luke. People have been trying my whole life to talk some sense into me. Hasn’t worked,” I replied. “Different people have also tried to fuck some sense into me too. That didn’t work either.” That was a low blow, and I almost regretted it the moment it came out of my mouth. Almost. I was fighting for my life here. And, more importantly, his. I’d ruined it enough. That motivation was enough to have me fighting dirty.
He flinched at my words, jaw turning to stone. His hand moved to circle my neck, not loosely, but only dancing with the point of pain. I could still breathe, but he was making his point.
And it was turning me on even more.
“I’m not most people,” he growled. His hand squeezed. “We’re not most people.” His eyes searched mine. “And I’m not tryin’ to change you, Rosie. I’ve fucked up enough thinking that’s something that I needed to do. Somethin’ you needed. I ain’t fuckin’ up again. The only shred of sense I’m going to make you see regards you and me. Everything else in your life, in you, can stay as beautifully and chaotically senseless as it is.” His hand moved, stroking the column of my neck that he’d just been squeezing, and his fingertips moved upward to trail along the sides of my face. “That’s what made me fall in love with you. All that exquisite senselessness.”
