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“What?”
“If you like the dress, sunshine, take it off yourself in the next three seconds, or I’m going to tear it off you—”
I tear off the dress, pushing it down to where my thighs are spread for him. He takes it from me, yanking it off me, tossing the dress over his shoulder.
Opening my thighs, one hand captures my right leg just above the knee before leaning over and pressing his lips to the skin of my inner thigh a few inches above my knees. It’s barely more than a whisper of a touch before he continues to sweep his mouth up my inner thigh.
Oh god, I change my mind. If feeling this good is why he wants to kill people, I get it. I’m not okay with it, but oh my fucking god, I get it. This is worth not only dying for but killing for alldamnday. He’s tearing every inch of skin off my body slowly, painfully with the velvet of his tongue. I hate it, but if he stops, I don’t want to live another second without this.
His tongue roams over every inch of me before pressing deep inside. Fucking me as powerfully with his tongue as he did with his cock. He’s driving me out of my mind. Even if I manage to live through this, I’m going to be a catatonic wreck.
I’m at turns grasping at the thick plush comforter or my own breasts without any memory of how I got my bra off. All of my skin is too tight, too hot, too itchy, too much. I need him. I need Manuel to light me on fire so we can burn together.
I scream in outrage when his tongue disappears only to scream in ecstasy as he sucks deep on my swollen clit. All around me, the world sputters in technicolor before black begins closing around me
He enters me with one powerful thrust, yanking me from the edge of darkness into blinding light. This. Manuel inside me as deep as he can go, owning me, burning into me, branding me as his—to fit him—is what my body has been waiting for.
My eyes fly open to find I’m impaled under him. He’s too far away, up on his hands, looking down at me with a wicked grin of satisfaction. “You’re so fucking gorgeous when you break apart.”
I reach up to touch his beautiful face. His eyes close with pleasure. The sight twists my chest so tightly I can’t breathe. I blink, and his lips skim over my cheek then over my lips.
“Four days without your pussy was too damn long.” I taste the hunger of the four days. It matches mine, a deep gnawing I couldn’t place, couldn’t believe was for his touch, his body against mine. Yet it’s only now with him inside me that my body hums with pleasure. There is no hunger, no angst, I’m satisfied, replete. I’m whole without any awareness something was missing.
He closes his eyes and begins moving. Slow, too slow at first. Yes. Yes, faster, please, faster. Rough hands grasp my hips and bring me up to him, my ass off the bed. I wrap my legs around his waist, frantic to get closer.
Oh god. Holy shit. Harder. Harder. Please, harder. Right there.
It doesn’t happen. I don’t break apart at the seams. I’m not a charred wreck. I fall far, so far, I wonder if I will ever stop until. Suddenly, I do. I crash into the waves so hard I fear I will shatter. I don’t. Instead, I’m drifting safe and whole on a warm mountain of a man holding me close, ensuring I don’t get lost in the endless ocean.
Stretching, I marvel at how big he is beneath me. Soft and silky skin covers what could be rock. I’m wondering how I came to be on top of him. Lifting my head, I find we’re in the middle of the bed. I mean to ask him something, only to get lost in learning the ridges of his muscles below my fingertips. I wonder what he tastes like.
A hand slides into my hair, dragging me to his mouth. His tongue traces my lips lightly, barely a whisper of touch, driving me to desperation for more.
I whimper his name as I rub my aching breasts against his chest in an attempt to soothe their ache. Breaking the kiss, his head rears back. “I can’t believe you have me this hard again so fast. When I was twenty maybe, but it’s been a long damn time.”
I’m unable to keep from giggling at his compliment. It’s only now I realize. “I can’t believe I don’t know. How old are you?”
“Thirty-seven,” he answers as he runs a hand through my hair. His expression one of fascination while he tangles his fingers in it.
“I know you have an older brother. Do you have any other brothers or sisters?” I’m curious. I want to know everything about him.
A shoulder lifts. “No other brothers and sisters. My mom baby-trapped my dad. Felix is thirty-eight, only eleven months separate us. She gave my father the heirs she felt she owed him. Then got her tubes tied so she could spend the money she earned without worrying about kids.”
“It feels wrong to be having sex when she just died today. Are you sure she baby-trapped him?” I can’t help wondering if his mother did love his father. Forty years is a long time to be married to someone you don’t love.
His laughter fills the room. Oh god, it’s so unfair he’s even sexier. The deep bass of his voice skims over my tummy. “You are adorable. It’s a good thing you married me and not some other selfish prick. One good thing about not having any empathy is you do what’s good for you. You, my sweet sunshine, need to worry less about what others think and care about what makes you happy. My mother was nineteen, and her father had committed suicide because of how deep in debt he got through bad business decisions. Her father didn’t deal, but we used his shipments to get our product into Europe. My grandfather took my father to Paris with him, and that’s where they met.”
“Paris? I don’t know why I thought your mom would be from Colombia or something. I had wondered where you got your eyes from. And you grew up speaking French?” He lifts an eyebrow at the question. “When you called someone after killing Josh and you spoke French—I could tell it was the language you grew up speaking. How many languages do you speak?”
A nod. “I got my blue eyes from both parents. My father’s grandmother was blonde-haired and blue-eyed. Her grandmother was also blonde and blue-eyed. She and her family are from France, by way of Lebanon. We grew up speaking French at home and learned English at school. Then, my father had us learn Spanish. I also speak Italian and can get by in Russian.”
“I’m so jealous. I was raised on Italian and learned English at school too. It took forever for me to learn Spanish. Lebanon? I’m surprised you didn’t learn the language.”
“They were extremely class and money conscious, so no way did her parents let her speak Lebanese outside of the home. My mom refused to speak it with anyone but her mother and sisters. It’s a coin flip if it was her mother’s idea or hers. But the first trip he went with my grandfather, to Paris he came home a father. My father was fifteen, rich and stupid. Her nineteen wasn’t that of most girls her age in Colombia,”
I shake my head. A nineteen-year-old taking advantage of a fifteen-year-old? That’s super icky, switch the sexes and people would want her prosecuted.
He lifts one shoulder. “She told him she was on the pill, and she provided the condoms because he followed my grandfather’s decree to fuck no one without a condom unless it was your wife. Around twenty years ago, she basically admitted she did what she had to do to get my father to marry her. A woman who cared more about herself would not mind in the least me partaking in the pleasure of your beautiful body the same day she died.”
