21. Corm
Chapter 21
Corm
C ontrol.
Fucking control. I’ve been hanging onto it by a thread. But when I cup her cheeks and seize her lips, and she whimpers into my mouth, it snaps.
I push my hand into her hair, fisting the silky strands with more force than I should. I can’t help myself.
I want to punish her for stripping me of common sense.
I want to hold her closer, because somehow, this woman became my oxygen.
I want to—need to—own her. Possess her. Protect her. Praise her.
I hike her up, the skirt falling around her legs as she wraps them around me, her hands frantically working the buttons of my shirt.
I grind my hips, hating all the fabric between us, but lost in the frenzy of kissing and groping and feeling her against me.
I told her I trust her, and fuck if I knew when that happened. She’s not a gambler. She has many issues, but gambling addiction isn’t one of them.
Perhaps it’s the relief that after days of wondering what snake I had allowed into my life, I now know my impression of her wasn’t a lie.
She’s the person I got to know. The infuriating, annoying woman who makes me feel alive.
Who makes me believe I can get past my fucked-up issues and focus on something else. A woman who keeps me on my toes.
And whose pussy is rubbing against my cock in a desperate cry for friction. For attention. And attention I give.
Finally she’s done with the buttons, and she pushes the shirt off my shoulders. Her touch on my skin burns, and I fucking want to go down in flames if it’s at her hand.
I pull away, staring at her, needing that one last confirmation that this is us. The genuine us. No more games.
She looks at me wide-eyed, bewildered, and so fucking beautifully broken, it’s like a punch in the guts. I let her slide down and step back.
Her chest heaves with shallow breaths. “What?”
“Your dress. Off,” I growl.
She pulls the zipper on the side down and shimmies out of her dress. No bra. Naked, and real. Fucking mine, even if she doesn’t know it. Or doesn’t want to yet. She’s fucking mine.
Roaming my eyes over her skin, I make quick work of my pants while I kick off my shoes. I take off my socks, not once moving my eyes away from her.
The unrestrained desire in her eyes.
The wanton curve of her lips.
The confidence of her posture.
I’m getting a more authentic version of her than what everyone knows from her photos. And this show is for me only.
It’s private, and after studying the facade she offers to the world—yes, I’ve been perusing her work—I’m pretty sure it’s genuinely true.
As raw as my desire for her.
I pull down my briefs, my cock springing out, the head glistening with pre-cum.
I walk to the dresser and get a condom from a black glass bowl and give it to her.
“Let’s see if you need the lube.” I smirk and hoist her up.
Her legs come back around my waist as I push her against the wall. Her body hot—literally and figuratively—against mine feels like too much and not enough at the same time.
She rips the wrapper with her teeth and almost drops it in her frenzy to cover my cock. God, what her eagerness does to me. I really am a simple man.
“Arms over your head.”
Resilience flashes through her eyes, but she raises her arms. I grip both her wrists in one hand and reach between us with the other.
I have always been an over-confident asshole, and I hate how this woman makes me doubt myself. But having her now at my mercy is intoxicating. Magical. Empowering.
Feeling her body against me is so arousing, I may just blow from this contact.
“Look at that, baby; I still need proof that you usually depend on lube.” I swipe through her folds and bring my glistening fingers to her mouth.
Smearing her arousal on her lips, I kiss her roughly and then dip my head to the crook of her neck. Just inhaling her.
She whimpers, grinding her pelvis against me. I grip my cock and line it at her entrance. In one violent thrust, I push in, and I’m home, sheathed in her tantalizing pussy.
Saar screams at the sudden intrusion. “Corm.”
“That’s right, scream my name, The Morrigan. This is going to be fast.” I glance at her face, seeking consent, and meet a challenge in her eyes. Fucking vixen.
I set a punishing tempo, releasing her arms, so I can use both hands to hold her ass. The room fills with her moans, my grunts, our perspiration-covered bodies slapping.
“I’m going to come,” she pants.
“Not yet,” I growl, pull out, and drop her to her feet.
She whimpers something unintelligible that sounds like a string of profanities. I laugh as I whip her around.
“Hands on the wall, baby.”
She obeys immediately, and I drive into her like a man possessed, bruising her hips in my grip.
It takes only a few thrusts before she whimpers again. “I’m close.” She pushes her ass to me.
I stop moving, and she groans. “I fucking said not yet.”
“You don’t control my orgasm,” she snaps with frustration.
Fisting her hair, I pull her to me. Her back warm against my chest now, I take her earlobe into my mouth, biting gently. “This is where you’re wrong, baby. In the bedroom, I’m in charge. Understood.”
She tenses, but I cup her breast and roll her nipple between my fingers. The shudder that ripples through her is a good enough answer, and she nods.
I smirk. “Use your words.”
“Understood,” she grits out.
“Do you want to come, The Morrigan?” I skim her rib cage, enjoying the goose bumps sprouting under my fingertips.
“Yes,” she growls, almost stomping her foot.
“Then beg for it, baby.” I bite her shoulder gently.
Now she actually stomps my foot, but it’s like a tickle given how light she is in my arms, and I chuckle.
“Fuck, Corm, I want to come. Now.” She pants and tries to bend.
I let go of her hair, so she can reach the wall again, her ass jutting out. The movement almost makes me come.
“We’ll work on your attitude later.” I ram into her once. Twice. Three times. “Touch yourself.”
She slides her hand between her legs. I snake my arm around her and pinch her nipple.
“Oh my God,” she cries out, and her body stiffens, her walls closing around my cock as she explodes around me.
I continue moving in and out, her skin slipping from my grip as she slackens, completely taken by her orgasm.
It’s a beautiful thing to see her come undone.
It’s a beautiful thing to let her come.
It’s a beautiful thing that pushes me over the edge, and I spill myself inside her.
She slams against the wall, and I cover her with my body, finding purchase with my forearm. Holding her light frame upright is almost impossible as I try to find my ground.
What is this woman doing to me?
Breaking my walls.
Redefining my beliefs.
Uprooting my priorities.
And the biggest problem: I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.
I pick her up and carry her to the bed where I collapse beside her.
Pulling her into my arms, I hold her so tight she probably can’t breathe. I’m unbearably in need of contact. Of having her in my arms in the aftermath of our climax.
I may be an asshole, but I’m no stranger to aftercare. Yet this is the first time I’m holding a woman because I need it probably as much as her.
The connection. The calm after the storm. The care.
Again, what is this woman doing to me?
“Where did you go?” I lace my fingers behind my head.
Saar is in the bathroom, but she kept the door open. It’s a little thing, yet it wraps around me, grounding me.
In lieu of her verbal declaration of trust or any commitment, I take her peeing with open doors like a just replacement. For now.
She laughs. “I’m in the bathroom.”
In the mirror on the wall, I see her as she hovers above the toilet, wiping herself. The image spreads honey around my chest, tugging at the corners of my mouth. When was the last time I felt this content?
“When you cheated your brothers in cards.” I roll on to my side, propping my head in my palm, my gaze on the mirror.
She saunters to the sink and washes her hands. God, her ass is a masterpiece. She dries her hands and messes her hair a little before returning.
“We went to a cooking school in Tuscany.” She grins, the mischief dancing in her eyes.
“So you know how to cook?”
She lied that night the magazine came. She didn’t want to share pieces of her then. She does now. And it makes me swell with something primal. Like it’s my achievement. Like I earned her trust.
It’s fucking cooking, you idiot.
“Hmmm.” She picks up my shirt from the floor and slides her arms through it. Fuck. I don’t ever want her wearing anything else.
“Cal bailed after two days, but Finn stuck around, and it might have won him his wife.” She angles her head sideways, studying the abstract artwork on the dark wall.
“You said you played them one year only…”
She turns and smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “The following year, my face was in such demand, I didn’t get to go on another vacation.”
Fuck. I’ve half the mind to have my jet fueled and take her to every destination in the world.
She leans against the chest of drawers, biting her lip while she studies me. Her long, bare legs crossed at the ankle, she looks comfortable in my shirt.
Or maybe it’s the lighting in the room. She still has the shadows under her eyes from the lack of sleep, but there is a fresh glow on her face. Like she isn’t expecting to be attacked or threatened anymore, so she’s finally relaxed.
“Every time we talk, it’s me talking and you avoiding,” she says, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Tell me about your father.”
Fuck. I scoot to sit up, my back against the headboard. “He died.”
She sighs. “You said you trust me.”
“You need to improve your pillow talk.”
“You see… avoiding.”
I close my eyes. I do trust her. I think I want to tell her. I just don’t quite know what to tell. How to share the mangle of thoughts and emotions that the mere mention of Connor Quinn stirs in me.
The mattress dips at the foot of the bed. When I open my eyes, I find her mirroring my position, leaning against the footboard, her long legs stretched alongside mine.
She isn’t pushing the topic, nagging me to share. It’s like she senses my turmoil, so she came closer, creating space for me to share.
I wish she would push, though, because I can retort her words, but her silent support is hard to rebut.
I sigh. Maybe it’s time to share. “He is not my father.”
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t react; she simply holds my gaze. But her composure is telling.
“How did you know?” I have to restrain myself from moving away from her. How could she know?
She quirks her eyebrow up. “You know an awful lot about me.”
“Touché.”
Silence, filled with my lack of will to talk and her abundant patience to listen, stretches for what feels like a lifetime. I have never shared anything personal with anyone, other than my immediate family.
The concept is foreign, foul-tasting, and yet not completely outlandish with Saar. As she pointed out, she shared, and, most of the time, honestly.
Perhaps it’s her upbringing, starved for attention, and then later sharing spaces with so many people all the time. Maybe talking is not a big deal for her.
But what good can come from sharing my thoughts, my disappointments?
“You said you trusted me,” she repeats softly.
“I grew up admiring him. He was my mentor, my hero, my example. But he wasn’t my father.”
“What you just described sounds like a pretty damn good father to me.”
Compared to the old van den Linden, it feels laughable and privileged to complain about a father figure in my life. “Yes, I guess he was a good father. I was always a cocky bastard, and everything came to me with ease. I didn’t want to apply myself too much—only interested in fun and breathing through life just below the surface.
“But he saw more in me, and he challenged me to start something that was mine. Merged is the result. His illness was progressing quickly, and I just wanted to make him proud. And he was. But for some reason, he decided to leave me a letter in his will. Telling me how proud he was to be my father, even though he didn’t sire me.”
I close my eyes again, as if the truth was easier in the darkness.
“Maybe he just felt like he lied to you all his life. It may feel like a selfish act of atonement. But perhaps it’s simpler. Maybe he believed you deserved the truth.”
“But what good is the truth for? I’m just so fucking mad at him. With the fucking letter, he robbed me of the opportunity to grieve. And I’m mad at her. Along with Declan, they were my people. And now…” I shake my head.
“They are still your people. That letter doesn’t erase all the memories you have with him. Your mom misses you. She doesn’t deserve this either. And whatever his intention was, I’m sure he didn’t plan for you to abandon your mom. To break your family.”
“Well, that’s exactly what he did.”
“Don’t let him.”
I snap my gaze to her, and her peaceful beauty hits me right in my chest. I want to argue her point, but she’s right. Also, how am I going to argue—with a woman whose parents abandoned her—that my loving parents don’t deserve my company or affection? Fuck.
“Okay, let’s move away from this heavy portion of the night,” I grumble.
She chuckles and stands up again. I was hoping the next point on the agenda would be in this bed.
When I suggested—okay, demanded—we explore this thing between us, I wasn’t expecting digging into wounds. Or helping them heal. Fuck. I’m really out of my depth here.
In a cowardly effort to move the attention away from me, I switch the topic. “When are you going to take Nora Flemming’s offer?”
“The question is if , not when . And the answer is, I don’t know yet.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you should explore the opportunity. She knows what she sees in you. I agree with her. The only person to embrace your own potential is you.”
She saunters to the bar cart and pops open a bag of nuts, ignoring the conversation. I guess she isn’t ready. “Do you want anything?”
Shit. “When was the last time you ate?”
She chuckles. “I’m okay.” She peruses the room again, my shirt hiding and showing parts of her, taunting me.
She opens a drawer, and since I know what’s there, my cock springs to applaud her immediately.
“Oh.” She utters a curious sound and retrieves a pair of handcuffs, turning to me with heat in her eyes.
I crook my finger and beckon her to me, the arousal replacing all the heaviness of our previous conversation.
Ironically, the intimacy is the same—just its expression is different. This time more carnal. I’m all for that, way more eager than I was with sharing words.
She lets the handcuffs dangle from her raised hand, her eyes darting between them and me.
“Saar,” I warn. “Come here.”
She wets her lips in slow motion, the little tease. “Make me.”
Fucking brat. Within seconds I’m on my feet, and before she even decides where to run, I pounce.
I whip her around and twist her arm against her back. Both my arms imprison her against my chest. She makes a sound that is a groan and a laugh while pushing her ass against me. My cock twitches, but I don’t let her distract me.
In one quick move, I grip her other hand and click the cuffs locked, binding her wrists behind her back.
“Hey,” she protests, wriggling and thrashing as if that would make me stop. It only makes me want her more. To tease her more. Torment her more.
I yank her close to me and thrust my hips forward, so she feels the effect she has on me. Holding her tight, I lower my head to her ear.
Her usual lavender scent is mixed with my aftershave and, well… me. It makes her feel mine. And suddenly, that becomes my only mission… to make her truly mine.
“Didn’t I tell you who is in charge in the bedroom, The Morrigan?” I growl into her ear, and appreciate the shudder that rakes through her. “I think I need to punish you.”
Her breath hitches, and it may just be my imagination, but she leans into me, gyrating her ass.
“Use your words.” I suck on the soft skin in the crook of her neck, suddenly very dedicated to marking her. Fuck, I have never felt this unrelenting need to claim someone.
“What was the question?” The words are a breeze only, but they are laced with frustration.
“Who is in charge?”
“You.”
“How should I punish you for being a little brat?”
“That wasn’t the question.” She elbows me, but the jab is a tickle.
“It is now,” I growl.
She stills for a moment, but then shocks me. “What are my options?”
I laugh. Fuck, she’s amazing.
I reach for the drawer and pull out a multi-tail whip. With one hand closing around her throat—not too hard, just to gauge her reactions—I trail the tip of the handle around her clavicle.
She swallows, and her pulse quickens against my palm. I continue to softly trace her skin with the whip.
“Look at these nipples begging for attention.” I circle each hardened bud, and she moans, throwing her head against my shoulder.
Her eyes are hooded, her lips parted, with my hand around her neck, and I almost abandon the game to bend her over and fuck her.
My cock would certainly be happy. But I don’t want to rush things.
I graze her torso farther down until I reach between her thighs. I stop while another shudder rakes through her body. I want to edge her, draw this out, but I also need another hit of her like a junkie.
I settle on capturing her lips. She welcomes me eagerly, dueling with my tongue, sucking, biting, moaning into my mouth.
No kiss ever felt more desperate and more rewarding at the same time. She tastes like anything and everything I ever needed in my life.
And she definitely doesn’t taste fake. No longer a convenience, she became the reason. The purpose. The answer.
“Is this the punishment?” she says against my lips.
“Not yet, The Morrigan; this is my reward.” I kiss her, squeezing her throat a little more, her heart thumping wildly against my palm.
She bites my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. “Whatever should you be rewarded for?”
I smirk, my face only half an inch from her, our noses touching. “For all the orgasms I gave you.”
“As if you didn’t come, as well,” she teases, her voice heavy with lust while sassing me.
“I think I need to put that mouth of yours to better use.” I whip her around, fisting her hair and pulling gently, so she looks at me.
She meets my eyes with a challenge in hers. With heat and unabashed desire. “Is that my punishment?”
Fuck, the things I want to do to her. “You would like to suck my cock, baby?”
She nods, licking her lips, and I summon every ounce of control not to succumb. “Not just yet.” I kiss her roughly. “First the punishment.” I swat her gently with the whip, just brushing the skin of her ass.
We stare at each other for several long beats. Our mutual need swirls around us while the moment of stillness sharpens it. I’ve never felt such burning desire. Such essential longing. Such an all-consuming craving.
And it’s not just her body I want at this moment. Or probably long before this moment.
“Okay,” she rasps her consent, trepidation and longing lacing her tone.
I smile and kiss her again. “Good girl.” I graze her ass with the whip again. “Where?”
She blinks. “What?”
“Where do you want the whip? Your pussy or your ass?”