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I hadn’t planned on seducing Lenox. I intended to go through our marriage like a nun, and I knew he was going to be the same.
He’s not here to take advantage of me. He’s here because he loves my cousins like brothers and has enough guilt about the past that he couldn’t say no. He doesn’t want my money. He doesn’t want my company. In fact, he doesn’t want to be anywhere near me.
And that gave me power. A power I hadn’t realized I needed until I saw him sitting there drinking and eating dinner with me, wearing a wedding band he purchased on his left hand. For the first time since my father’s plane went down, I feel light as a feather. Untethered and fucking free. I’m high on it, and I don’t want this high to end.
Not yet.
Not when I’m craving more of it—almost as much as I’m craving the brutal way Lenox likes to dominate and fuck. He’ll make it good for me. Of that, I have no doubt. Lenox is nothing if not generous in bed, but more than that, he likes watching me come whether it’s on his mouth, fingers, or cock.
It was as much of a release for him as it was for me, and I think right now that’s something we could both use.
Even if it’s just tonight and means nothing more than that.
His blue eyes are darker than midnight, but I can see in them what’s about to come next, and when he says my name, I know I’m not wrong. “Georgia?—”
“Don’t try to get rational with me, Lenox,” I tell him, pushing against the resistance of his hands on my wrists and hip to rub myself up and down his pants over his straining cock. “I’m not some eighteen-year-old girl who is going to fall in love with you. We’re both adults and can make this decision for ourselves. It’s just us, and we agreed it’s just tonight. I need you to fuck me, and I know you want to.”
“Wanting to fuck you is more natural to me than breathing. It’s you who has me?—”
Abruptly, he cuts himself off there, as if he was about to say more than he wanted, and stares into my eyes, as if that shocked him. I don’t push it because I don’t want to know. It’ll only poke at the scars he made if I do. I’d rather be able to move back to antagonistic or business-like after this.
Like at our wedding, like he can’t help or stop himself, his lips spear down against mine, punctuated by a growl of frustration. His hand abandons my wrists in favor of diving into my hair while mine grip the black fabric of his shirt. He licks once, twice at the seam of my lips and forces me open when I resist. He grins against me because, even though I seduced him, I still want him to take from me, to force me just enough that I feel as though I’m not giving him anything he hasn’t earned and I haven’t fought to keep.
The velvet slide of his mouth is so familiar and yet entirely new as he splits my lips and delves in, his tongue immediately seeking mine out. I groan at the taste of him. At the way his hands fist my hair and run through the silky ends, giving them a firm tug that has me grinding down on him a bit harder.
He grunts into me, twisting my head the other way and switching his position, diving in deeper as he explores every inch of my mouth as if he can’t get enough. Unlike our wedding kiss, there is no urgency, no frenzy, or how did this happen. The warm wetness of his tongue slides over mine as he inhales my every breath, tasting the wine, tequila, and spicy sauce on my lips. He finds the straps of my bra, running his fingers back and forth under them before letting them slip off my shoulders. The cups drop an inch, revealing the top part of my nipples, and he breaks the kiss so he can look for himself.
“You bought this today.” It’s not a question, but I nod, panting out air through my overused lungs. His gaze slides up to mine. “And you didn’t plan for me to fuck you?”
I smirk and bite my lip, shaking my head. I’m not even being coquettish, more amused than anything at his expression. “No. It was my armor.”
“Sexy fucking armor.”
I fight my smile because I forgot this about him. I forgot he likes to talk and sort of narrate, and I remember realizing he only speaks when he’s worked up about something, but since he rarely allows himself the emotional merit, he rarely talks. On nights he’d show up particularly out of sorts or broken, those were the nights he’d talk to me the most. He’d tell me things, things that floated in and out of his brain, and I took them in like a sponge, like a needy cat desperate for more of him in the form of his words.
This isn’t emotional for him, but the endorphin rush is similar enough.
“And this?” He reaches down and snaps the garter on my thigh, making me jolt up and whimper at the zap of the elastic on my overheated skin.
“They talked me into it.”
He makes a sarcastic noise, but I can tell he likes it. “Unhook this for me.” He gives my bra strap a tug.
Without hesitation, I reach behind my back and unclasp my bra, allowing it to slip from my chest and arms and setting it down on the bench seat beside him. For a long moment, he’s silent, staring at my chest.
“God, you’re so beautiful you make it impossible to breathe.” An incredulous head shake, and then his hands slide down my back and around my backside until they’re almost cupping my pussy from behind. Without warning, he stands, taking me with him and forcing me to wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck, though I know he won’t drop me.
He walks us into the bedroom and sets me down on the bed, pressing his hand into my shoulder and forcing me down onto my back. He’s standing in the valley of my thighs, still with his eyes roving every inch of me. In my next breath, he’s back on me, eating at my mouth and sucking on my chin and throat. His body presses me down into the mattress, heavy and warm and so fucking good a wave of satisfaction rolls through me.
His hands are all over me, playing with my breasts, lifting them, touching them, toying with them, pinching my nipples. All the while, he devours my mouth like an animal. Lips and teeth and tongue. Like a man no longer in control when I doubt that’s the case.
I reach for his shirt, starting at the top button and trying to work the rest, anxious to get to his skin, to be able to touch him the way he’s touching me. I shudder out a pleased breath when I manage the last button and shuck it from his shoulders, dragging it down only to whimper in frustration. Biting my lip, he growls in protest as I force him back to free his stuck wrists caught on the cufflinks. He pries himself away, unhooking the cufflinks as he goes, dropping each heavy piece of metal on the nightstand with a thud before he slips off his shirt and tosses it on the floor.
His knee hits the mattress, one and then the other, his eyes locked on my lips—his wet and puffy from his kisses—and my breasts—swollen and heavy with hard pink peaks.
He positions himself at the head of the bed, sitting up against the headboard, his tattoos and nipple piercings a buffet for my eyes.
He runs a lazy finger along his bottom lip and says, “Roll over and crawl to me. Show me what a good, obedient girl my wife can be.”
