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So I give it to her. I stabilize myself with one palm flat on the floor, and I swing my hips into hers. She arches back and reaches up for one of the pillows, snatching it off the bed and bringing it to her face. Kenzi screams into the pillow as I fuck her so hard, I can hear our hips slap together.
I need to see her face, though, so I yank the pillow from her and catch her mouth in mine instead. She lets out a series of whimpers against my lips, and her fingers curl at my chest, at my back, nails digging in.
“Put your hand on my throat,” Kenzi says breathlessly, between thrusts.
Now here’s the thing: I don’t usually engage in physical play. I’m six foot five. Two hundred and ten pounds. I’m a walking brick house. I know how easy it is for me to seriously hurt or bruise someone—even if I don’t mean to.
But the look in her eyes tells me she wants this. My hands—like everything else about me—are big. I wrap one of them around her throat, and my fingers spread far.
Gently, I squeeze. I know the muscles here; I avoid her larynx and press my thumb and fingertips in at the sides of her throat instead. Her carotid arteries are here, but putting pressure on them for a short time is marginally less dangerous than crushing her larynx.
I watch her face intently for any signs of discomfort. “Is this okay?” I ask.
She nods—at least, as best as she can with her throat in the vise of my hand. She grips my arm and squeezes. “Harder,” she says, her voice raspy.
I increase the pressure. Her heels dig into the backs of my thighs, climbing me, and she arches against me as she struggles for breath.
I hold my own breath with her—I’m not going to make her hold hers any longer than I can. But the way she’s struggling makes me uneasy. Quickly, I release her completely from my grasp.
She looks up at me and blinks. “Why’d you stop?”
I press my lips together. “You looked like you were struggling.”
She takes my hand again, guiding it back to her throat. “It doesn’t matter. Keep going.”
“It matters.”
She shakes her head and insists, “I don’t care. Choke me.”
But there’s something wrong about this. I can be as kinky as the next guy—but the look in her eyes, it’s off. She’s not here with me. I deflate slightly, my arousal taking a nosedive, and shake my head.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Having sex.”
“No. You’re not. You’re hurting yourself, and you’re using me to do it.”
Kenzi turns her head and looks away. Her face turns red, but she doesn’t speak, shame, maybe, or sadness trapped in her throat.
And maybe I’m the asshole here. Maybe someone else—maybe Donovan—would have choked her until she was black and blue, fucked her hard enough to make her bleed, and satisfied that masochistic itch inside of her.
Maybe these are my own demons—all the fights I got into as a kid, all the times I used my body to hurt people and then swore I wouldn’t do that again.
But the disconnect in her gaze unnerves me, and we’ve reached an impasse.
“I love you, Kenzi,” I tell her, my voice intense. “You know that, right?”
She still won’t look at me, but her bottom lip quivers at that.
I hover over her. Gently, I lean down and press a soft kiss to the side of her face, then another under her ear. “I love you,” I murmur. “All of you. Even the parts you don’t like.”
Suddenly, she grips the back of my neck. Tight. “I love you, too,” she whispers in my ear.
She says those words, and immediately, two things happen:
My heart swells twenty times larger in my chest.
I nearly cum, right then, just from hearing it.
