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“Open your legs.” Matt used his foot, nudging her ankles apart impatiently.
Liza from ten minutes ago would have goaded him longer, but the spanking had jarred something loose, something feral, something wild. Her anger fled, drowned by the arousal roaring through her body.
Parting her thighs, she hissed when Matt spanked her pussy—three hard smacks that had her shifting up on her toes, pain and pleasure mingling until she was mindless.
“Please!” she gasped.
She expected Matt to crow over her plea or demand she beg him for more, but she wasn’t the only one operating on anger and arousal and sheer carnal need.
The head of his cock bumped against her clit, then he guided it to her opening, slamming in with one hard, teeth-chattering thrust.
She lifted her head as much as his strong grip would allow, looking at him over her shoulder. “Fuck me hard. Make it hurt.”
Liza put just enough strength behind her demand to let Matt know he hadn’t completely conquered her.
Pride was going to give submission a run for its money, and the tune to “The Race is On” played in her mind. Then the music was drowned out by a cacophony of drumbeats—the pounding of her heart thudding in her ears, the headboard of the bed banging against the wall, as he gave her exactly what she’d asked for.
Matt’s thrusts were brutal, rough, and nowhere near as controlled as she’d come to expect from him.
“God, Liza,” he cried out when she felt the first twinges of her orgasm. Her pussy throbbed around his dick, her vision blurred, unfocused. Her climax struck hard, and she screamed as she splintered apart.
“Can’t. Stop,” Matt grunted, his own climax coming on the heels of hers. “Can’t stop,” he repeated, though his words rang different the second time.
By the time he said them once more, his tone pure anguish, Liza realized he wasn’t talking about sex or coming.
“I can’t stop!”
He was talking about them.
Chapter Eleven
Matt leaned back in his chair, watching as Liza stopped by Arnold and Johnnie’s table on her way back from the bar, chatting with the grooms. She was clearly stalling, doing whatever she could to avoid coming back to the table. She’d been giving him the cold shoulder ever since she returned from her tour of Pearl Harbor earlier this afternoon. There had been no more discussion about her getting her own room, though he suspected she still planned to. She probably would have gotten one this morning if they hadn’t overslept, making her late to leave for her tour.
He tried to remind himself her feelings were none of his concern. After all, he’d made no bones about the fact that this affair was sex only.
So if that was the case, why did he wish she was sitting here, smiling at him, talking to him about her day? He’d enjoyed that first afternoon he’d spent by the ocean with her more than any day in years. God, he’d even raptly listened to her family stories, and he couldn’t stand the damn Morettis.
He lifted his glass of whiskey, taking a large sip. He should probably slow down. This was his third drink and the bartender’s pours were very, very generous. He was hoping the alcohol would fog his brain enough that he wouldn’t have to think about how badly he’d fucked things up with Liza yesterday…and today.
After the nightmare, he’d decided his best course of action would be to put some distance between the two of them. Liza had begun to look at him in ways that made him…uncomfortable. She was starting to see things in him that simply weren’t there.
While she gave off an air of being tough as nails, now that he’d gotten to know her better, Liza had become more transparent to him. As such, he could see that she wore her heart on her sleeve.
So yesterday morning, he’d lied about having a big meeting, hoping the physical distance would help break whatever spell had fallen over them. He’d spent all afternoon hunkered down in the room, pretending to work on his laptop.
What he’d really done was far more concerning. Because the second she’d left the room, he had pulled out a piece of paper and a pen and drawn a sketch of her.
He hadn’t indulged his interest in art since he was fourteen, and his father caught him sketching his brothers when they were outside playing one afternoon. As always, he’d been in his father’s office, doing homework, listening to Dad read one of his employees the riot act, when laughter from the window captured his attention. His brothers were tossing a football back and forth, talking and laughing.
Matt remembered how much he’d longed to go out and join them. Aware that wasn’t possible, he’d started drawing them. He had almost finished the picture when his father saw it. Dad had torn it to pieces, yelling at him for wasting his time on stupid “girlie shit.”
Dad wasn’t averse to corporal punishment, so Matt had gotten the belt more than a few times when he was a kid. His father had also been known to backhand him whenever Matt got smart-mouthed. But Dante’s preferred method of punishment was discovering what someone loved, then destroying it.
Up until that point, Matt’s art had been keeping him sane, but the idea of his father destroying all his work put an end to that.
Liza had become an unwelcome distraction and a huge disruption to his well-ordered routine, so he’d sought out the long-forgotten go-to, turning to art for peace. And it had worked…right up until he put the pen down and spent the remainder of the afternoon gazing at what he’d created.
He’d drawn her in her elegant red ball gown, the one she’d worn to the Snowflake Gala. In the picture, she was standing in profile next to the large picture windows, staring out at the cold night, lost in thought, and his own thoughts had drifted back to their first dance…and what came after.
