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He chokes out a desperate laugh and pulls us away from the wall, carrying me easily, like my hundred and thirty-five pounds is nothing.
He rests one muscular arm beneath my ass, and the other, around my back to keep me steady. Then he steps around the cat when she hisses for attention.
“God, I hate that animal.”
“You do not,” he laughs, carrying me into the shadowed hall. “I know for a fact you sit with her when I’m not home.” He grabs my jaw and drags my face down until our eyes meet. Then he steps through our bedroom door and smirks. “I know you secretly love her, and when I’m not watching, you sneak her pats and treats.”
“You’re wrong.” Proud, I sit tall in his arms and make it harder for him to balance my weight. “I hate her. She hates me.” And over his shoulder, the fluffy white cat sits at the end of the hall and stares ocean-blue daggers in my direction. “She’s gonna sneak in here and claw your ass if you don’t close that door.”
“It’ll be your ass she claws,” he teases. But he kicks our door shut anyway and walks to the bed until his shins touch the mattress.
I know he’s going to throw me down. I know it’s coming, as it does every single time, but he still surprises a gasp from deep in my throat as he drops me onto the mattress and immediately follows after, settling his knee between my legs, just high enough for me to find friction.
Pleasure.
Hunger.
He places his jeaned thigh at the apex of mine, and smugly grins when my hips move in response. “So fucking beautiful.” He sets his closed fist by my ribs, and uses the other hand to tug my bra down.
A thread snaps, but although he grits his teeth in apology, the arrogance in his eyes as he comes down to take my nipple between his lips says he’s not remotely sorry.
He doesn’t care about my underwear being torn. Or about my good work-blouse sitting on our kitchen floor. He doesn’t give a shit about anything material at all.
But he worshipsme. My body. My heart and soul.
So when my back bows in search for more of his touch, he wraps an arm beneath my torso and bites my nipple just hard enough to make it sting.
“Shit!” A wash of pleasure fills my panties and makes damn sure my pants come off next. “Archer.”
“I’ve thought about this all day.” He unhooks the snap of my bra and tugs the material away completely. Dropping it to the floor, he circles my nipple with his lips and undoes the button of my pants with a skillful flick. “I think about you every single fucking day,” he rasps. “Marriage is supposed to mean boring, isn’t it?” He shoves my trousers down without any lick of finesse. No remorse when his hands are rough. No apologies, when we both know, tomorrow, he’ll have bruised me. “Marriage is supposed to feel bland.Been there, done that.”
My heart thunders so I feel it slam against my diaphragm, and my throat burns dry. I can’t even rustle up an iota of offense at his words.
“It’s supposed to make us unhappy.” He tosses my clothes aside and pushes back to his knees to tear his shirt over his head.
He reveals his chest, tatted and scarred so I know where a bullet pierced his flesh a few short months ago. The messy entry point made worse when I was forced to dig around for the slug in a dirty warehouse because he wouldn’t allow me to take him to a hospital.
He didn’t want a regular doctor, the kind accustomed to working onalivepatients. His trust that I would get him through was unbreakable. His assurance that I would make damn sure he’d live was undeniable. There wasn’t a single moment where he worried about his life. Because he knew I’d keep him safe.
Just as surely as I know he’d do the same in return.
“But I haven’t gotten bored yet, Mayet.” He falls to his hands again, the chain hanging around his neck dropping forward to tickle my breasts. He reaches down with one hand to undo his belt and jeans, then kicks them away, to straighten again and reveal his purpling and engorged cock. Seeping with want, and dripping to coat my hipbone with desire. “I’ll never get bored of you.”
“Marriage was just the start for us.” I throw my head back when he lowers to his knees and pins my ankles, his hands acting as a set of cuffs. My thighs burn like I’ve run a marathon, and yet, I merely lie open on our bed, groaning when he charges forward and buries his nose between my legs.
“Archer,” I breathe. “Jesus.”
“Delicious.” He slides his tongue through my folds and fucks me mercilessly as tears build in my eyes.
Fiery sensations pop off in my every nerve ending. My release sprints closer so easily. His touch, enough to thrust me toward completion, easier than with anyone else at any other time in my life.
With marriage comes a man who studies your body. Not a one-night stand who mindlessly fucks, but a partner who takes the time to know what works. What doesn’t.
And Archer Malone is nothing if not committed to his mission.
“Archer.” I moan when his hands bruise my thighs. It hurts so good. His strength, the sweetest pain I’ve ever known. “I want to fuck.” Breathless, I try to fight his hold. “Archer! I don’t want to finish like this.”
“You’ll finish how I tell you to finish.” He slips two fingers in to battle with his tongue, propelling me over the ledge and into a freefall.
