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“I came to ask how your appointment was with the therapist,” I say, “and if—”
He kisses me, pushing me against the wall, imprisoning my wrists in his hand and pressing them over my head. Like always, his strength at first catches me by surprise, then turns me on, sending flares of need into my core.
Though sometimes I wish… But it doesn’t matter what I wish for. This is what he can give me. I’ll take it.
So I strain against him, kiss him back, moan when his long, hard body and even harder cock rubs on mine. He rocks his hips and I gasp at the feel of him, so long and thick pressing into my side.
This time we don’t even make it to the sofa. He lets go of my hands to push off my coat, then we’re ripping at each other’s clothes and going down on our knees on the thick rug. He tears off my blouse, pulls down the straps of my bra and his mouth is on my breasts instantly, teasing the tips into hard peaks.
He leaves a hot trail of kisses down to my bellybutton, then lower. He unzips my jeans, pulls them down my legs together with my panties—and I let him. I lean back, on my hands, and let him put his mouth on me, tease my seam open, lick at my clit, at my entrance, play there with his fingers until I come apart with a cry, my pussy clenching, the pleasure like glitter sparkling over my nerve endings.
And then he pushes down his sweats and pulls out his hard cock, stroking it, his eyes dark and bright, and I can’t look away as he drags his fist up and down the flushed length, smearing the clear liquid seeping from the small slit. My mouth goes dry like every time I see him. Big. Powerful. Bared to me.
Most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
He looks up, giving me a long look, searching my face. I reach for him, and he pulls me onto his lap, breathing hard.
It’s difficult to remember any doubts as I straddle his muscular thighs and he holds me close so he can lick and suck on my breasts some more, stoking the fire inside me once again. I’m nearly incoherent, whispering his name and begging by the time he guides his cock inside me.
I grab his shoulders, kneeling on the rug, spread wide, his length filling me up inch by inch. That dark gaze is fixed on me, reading every emotion and sensation as it flits over my face—need, shock, discomfort, pleasure, urgency.
He pushes inside me all the way, until I’m sitting on top of his thighs, then kisses my mouth while flexing his hips, swallowing my gasp. Pushing so deep inside me like nobody else has before.
His hands move to my waist, pulling me up, a clear message for me to move. So I ride him, ride his thick cock, his muscles rolling under my hands as he aids me, lifting me, his biceps bulging. As we move together faster, the pleasure is rising like water to drown me, and I break the kiss to throw back my head and gasp for air.
He presses his face to my breasts, grunting with every plunge of his cock in me, his arms sliding around me, holding me against him, rocking up, short, hard thrusts that shove me over the edge.
Shaking, I try to stop, the pleasure tearing me apart, but he thrusts once more, then again, muffling a cry against my skin. His hot cum bursts inside me, sending aftershocks through my whole body, from head to toes.
I’m clinging to him, my arms around him, resting my cheek on his hair, breathing in the scent of his shampoo. He’s still panting, the muscles in his arms and legs trembling, and he’s still semi-hard inside me.
“I love you,” I whisper. I can’t help it. I mean it with every fiber of my being. And even though he never says it back, I can’t stop, can’t take it back.
Can’t hide the truth no matter how I try.
Chapter Nineteen
Shane
Cass is here. Everything will be okay. It’s been a shitty night and an even shittier day. After a night of nightmares, I got to sit in a hard chair in a therapist’s office and rehash the memories, relive them one by one.
And then discuss them. By the time I left, I couldn’t stop shaking, and I was that close to flipping out and having a nice, nasty flashback on the street outside. She asked me before I left if I wanted to call someone to pick me up, take me home. A friend, or family. She warned me things might get worse before they get better.
I never replied, or called. I can do this. No way am I gonna worry everyone again and have them going in circles, thinking I’ve gone off the deep end.
The therapist said I’m not going crazy.
So I’m not. Even if it feels like it sometimes. She was interested in the fact I associated bad memories with the construction site. That I thought someone there was after me, that I thought everyone around me chewed cinnamon gum on purpose. Asked me lots of questions. Asked if I’ve had a flashback since I left the site. Since I was fired.
I haven’t. It’s only been two days, and I’ve come close to one a few times, but I haven’t had any flashbacks or panic attacks.
Which probably means nothing. Plus my whole body aches as if I’ve taken a beating while I wasn’t looking. Reliving the past tends to do that to me.
Having Cassie in my arms was the only thing I wanted. The thought of calling her, asking her over or going to her place, though, meant she’d see me as I came out of the therapist’s office: a step away from an attack, my head pounding, my stomach roiling.
So I headed home instead and lost myself in drawing.
Until she arrived. Seeing her was like a noose leaving my neck, like a ray of the sun. Then my body woke up, demanding more, demanding I replace the ache with pleasure, that I get closer, inside her, and she let me. She took everything I unleashed and returned it tenfold, turning it into fire.
