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I groan and push back, becoming accustomed to the pressure in my womb and the width of him. My fists grip the quilt as his thighs slap against my arse over and over. His thumbs run between my cheeks, and I yelp, pulling away, but he grabs me hard, holding me still. “Oh, Lauren, if your pussy is as tight as this.” He swivels his hips, and I whimper, pressing back to welcome the onset of another orgasm. “Then I know,”—his thumb presses into the tight bud—“here will be like a vice. I’m having you. All of you.”
“Cain,” I murmur uncertainly. I can’t, not tonight. I shake my head and wheeze when he pulls out to the tip and slides back in on a short, sharp bark, making me cry out in pleasure. I’m so close, and he knows it because each time my orgasm unfurls, he pulls away, allowing it to disappear back into some dark recess of me. “I need it.” Each rough thrust jolts through me. The impact at the base of my spine, and the hard slap as his hips pound into my pussy, has my body shuddering. He slides in with ease, my arousal soaking our connected flesh.
“If you could see what I see.” His palm connects with my arse cheek. Smack!
I garble a response.
“You're stretched to the max, pretty girl.”
“Cain, I’m close. You feel so good. So deep,” I cry.
I’m scooped up, and my back sticks to his sweaty chest as he rests us on his knees. “Watch,” he growls in my ear. My eyes dance open. London is spread out like a blanket of lights, and amidst the sky, there we are in the reflection, fucking in the stars. I begin to move, but it’s not enough to appease him. His hand slaps messily between my thighs, and I arch in his hold, my eyes splintering into a myriad of colours as the pain mixes with my pleasure.
I shock myself when I say, “Again.” A loud smack vibrates through the room, and my body slips into a place of calm. My mind shuts off, my body slips away, and I’m blanketed by the most serene sense of powerless pleasure. “My thighs are fucking soaked.”
I choke out a deprived cry and swing my arms back to hook behind his neck as I ride him with vigour. I should probably thank my parents for putting me through gymnastic school because I doubt I could bend like this if they hadn't.
“Cain, now, now,” I cry, feeling the deep twist of pleasure curling in my womb. Attuned to my needs, he grants me my wish. Smack! I sob and shake as an orgasm bigger than even myself ricochets through me. I slip into a blank void. The stars kiss my skin, and his touch sends me there.
“That’s it, take it. Your eyes are so fucking dilated. Do you love taking my cock?”
Choking out a sweet cry, I nod. Cain grunts, pulling my hips down in three sharp pounds and calls out in pleasure behind me. His cock swells and jerks as he fills me full of cum. His hands roam over my body, one kneading my achy breast and the other slipping all over my swollen folds. “I need a weekend, Lauren,” he finally gasps.
I shake my head, disturbed by how much I want to agree. That wasn’t just regular hook-up sex. Cain and I have serious chemistry.
“Stay the rest of the weekend with me, pretty girl.”
Chapter17
Cain
Asmall palm is spread across my chest, and light, painted fingertips crown delicate fingers that not mere hours ago were cuffed around a part of me that is still aching for more attention.
She agreed to the weekend, and I relax into the mattress, knowing that I can enjoy the next two days with her behind the safety of these four walls. She snores lightly—a gentle huff expelled from her bruised lips. Asking for the weekend is dangerous, but not having her for longer was out of the question. I’ve never wanted a woman with this ferocity. Never craved to be inside a woman as much as I do her. I want her body as much as I require my next breath, but given the choice of the two, I’d fucking pick her and die a happy man. Shaking my head, I peer down at her, slumbering peacefully. She’s a distraction—one that has cost me too many hours of contemplation. I have no doubt that this is pure, basic, and unfiltered lust. It’s addictive and mocks any previous encounters. I’ve wanted women in the past, and then there is Lauren. I’ll give myself the weekend—sate this aching pull she has on me before I give my attention back to what really needs it. Royce. Carefully, I move her arm and pull the quilt over her bare shoulder, and leaving the bed, I move into the en-suite and flick the shower on. I expect some kind of movement by the time I’m showered and wrapping a towel around myself, but she is still sound asleep when I walk back into the bedroom.
It’s still early, so I let her sleep and make myself some coffee. Danvers, my lawyer, has left me a voicemail, so I hit play and smirk as he advises me that Royce Ivory, my spineless stepfather, is making demands through his lawyer. The only thing he will get to keep is my mother. The rest is mine. Carson Court is my father’s home, my true fucking birthright. I have this unethical desire to burn the place to the fucking ground, lay coal along the halls, and burn every memory embedded into the walls to ashes. I crave to demolish it and build new foundations, but then it would no longer be the home of a boy who loved to skid along the marble floors or hide in the empty rooms. It would no longer be the home of a boy who lost his father and grew into a man feverish with revenge. I could bury Royce ten times over now and plaster his fucking soul to the gates just so I could drive through him and be smug in the fact that he, too, would have to watch from the iron bars as someone else lived the life he loved.
I thought this news would bring me satisfaction. Almost cleansing, but if anything, my anger spikes, screaming its way through my mind and reaching out to tell the one person it can’t—my father. Dropping my head, my chin flush to my chest, I blow out a long stream of air. The anger doesn’t dissipate but clings to me as tightly as I did my bleeding father’s hand. Striding across the room, I aim for the gym to work my mood away. I should be celebrating, could be, but Lauren doesn’t deserve my raging emotions.
* * *
It’s an hour or two when I hear the low moan of someone stretching from upstairs. By the time I make it to the top of the stairs, Lauren is sitting up with the quilt bunched around her, her hair a tumbling mess, and her face hidden as she rubs at her eyes. “Tired?” I rest my hip against the frame, my muscles burning from my rigorous workout.
“I’m broken,” she grumbles. “I think you went to war with my limbs because I ache all over.” She flops back and huffs dramatically. Her response is so unexpected that my eyes widen, and a bark of laughter shakes through my chest. Her lips kick up, but her eyes are still puffy.
“Ready for round two?” I muse from the doorway.
“No, I call a ceasefire. I need a spa day and therapy.”
My laugh is loud and short. Fucking comedian. My feet dig into the floor. I could easily clear the room and pounce on her to fuck the last of my anger out, but her sleep-stained eyes and croaky voice keep me at a reasonable distance. The light and feminine fragrance in the room softens the scent of sex. There is not an inch of her body that I did not have my hands or tongue on last night. “I’ll make some coffee. Go and grab a shower, then come find me for some therapy,” I suggest.
“Are you not going to join me?” Her face appears from beneath the covers.
“No.”
“But you’re all sweaty. Have you been working out?” She sits up, the quilt tucked neatly under her armpits, her breasts squashed high so the soft curve is plumb against my bedding. Taunting me, teasing.
“I have.”
