Chapter 12 Sawyer
Chapter twelve
Sawyer
My clit throbs every time Tytus presses his length into me.
I’m wearing jeans, but with the intensity of my body’s reaction to every shift of his hips and prod of his erect cock, I might as well be naked.
“Look at you,” he goads. “Writhing on your husband’s lap like a good little wife.”
My heart thuds to a stop, my limbs quivering with anticipation.
But between one breath and the next, that anticipation turns into frustration. I’m so over this game of hot and cold we’re playing.
I plant my palms on his chest and shove. “Stop calling me your wife. We are not married, and you fucking know it.”
The smirk he gives me makes me want to strangle him.
“But we should be. And now that the idea is out there, I don’t think I can go back to thinking of you any other way.
This is just the beginning.” His hands land on my thighs again, squeezing.
“This little lie I spun up? It wasn’t just for the dean.
Soon, everyone will know that you belong to me. ”
Jaw clenched, I shove him harder.
He thrusts up in response.
Another damn moan clamors its way up my chest, but I fight against it, internally cursing the warmth that’s pooled in my low belly and is dampening my underwear.
“My wife,” he repeats, his dark irises glinting. “I really fucking like the sound of that.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I snap back.
In response, he drags his length between my legs with enough force to make me gasp.
The dark amusement in his expression only fuels my fury.
How can I be so turned on and yet so fucking disgusted with myself at the same time?
He’s throwing me for a fucking loop. He never acts this way with me. I hate it. This is the face he puts on for the rest of the world: the aloof, unfeeling, brutal hockey player.
This isn’t my Ty.
Yet when he snaps his hips up again, this time grinding against my sweet spot, I pathetically cast aside his cruelty.
Right there.
Just like that.
My hips roll, seeking more.
My body very clearly doesn’t know he’s not mine.
“Stop,” I tell him, my voice weak.
“Stop?” he mocks with a hollow laugh. “You think I’m going to stop? Every time I do this”—he punches his pelvis up again, his aim far too perfect—“you make the most delicious noises and you grind yourself on me like I’m your favorite fucking toy, petit diable. I’m never going to stop.”
He does it again, this time holding the position and pressing down on my shoulders.
“We’ve barely fucking started.”
Frustrated and helpless, I thrust forward.
Fuck this.
Fuck him.
If he wants to play a game, then I’ll take what I need and at least savor the release after this shitty day.
“Right there,” he murmurs, his drawn-out movements quickening. “Oh fuck,” he groans. “How does this feel so good?”
Eyes closed, I shut him out. How many emotionless sexual encounters have I had?
I can do this.
I can get myself there. I just have to pretend the man beneath me isn’t Ty.
Head tipped back, I bring my hands to my breasts and push down my shirt and bra cups, exposing myself. It’s a risk, but I love nipple play, and I’d rather give myself what I want than spend another second thinking about my decision to just lean into this moment.
I tug on my piercings, letting the heat gather, noting how my panties have gone from damp to soaked.
Groaning, I do it again.
And again.
With each pull, I grind down, relishing my own wetness and using the seam of my jeans and Ty’s body as I seek the friction I need.
I want to feel. I want to fall.
My body has wanted this for so long.
Him.
Here.
Giving me pleasure. Offering me all I’ve ever wanted.
Grinding in his lap like this creates a heady wantonness I’ve never experienced, a helplessness I didn’t want yet will enjoy now that it’s washed over me.
“There you go, petit diable,” he murmurs. Tentatively, his hands replace mine. He tweaks and pulls, and I can’t fight the little whines escaping me in response to his touch. “You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?”
I’m going to come for myself.
Rather than say that out loud, I focus on his hands, transfixed by the way he pinches my nipples, squeezing until I whimper, then rolling the aching, abused buds between his fingers.
Hooded eyes search my face, then lower slowly.
So slowly.
He only stops when his mouth is right there. Focusing on my face again, he darts his tongue out, licking the tip of my nipple.
“Ty,” I warn, but it comes out more like a plea.
He licks me again.
My pussy spasms, the little shock wave making me jolt.
As if he felt my response, he pulls my hips down once more, opens his mouth wide, and sucks my nipple and piercing hard.
“Ty,” I cry out. “Let me go.”
He doesn’t.
Thank fuck.
I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath with meager protests.
The way he’s staring up into my eyes, lavishing my breast, rocking up against my clit over and over again? There’s only one way this ends.
My orgasm is unavoidable.
He and I are inevitable.
When he switches sides, squeezing one breast while sucking hard on the other, my legs quake.
Heat shoots up my limbs. Sparks fly and fall and catch on all the broken bits of kindling they can find, lighting up every cell in my body.
“Stop,” I cry as I crest over the edge, silently begging him not to listen.
He won’t. I’m counting on it.
“Stop, stop, stop,” I chant, each word punctuated by the roll of my hips as my greedy cunt seeks more.
This isn’t enough.
There’s too much fabric between us.
I want him everywhere.
“Stop,” I cry out one final time.
He presses on my shoulders again, fucking up in a rapid, rhythmless desperation.
I detonate, and in slow motion, my world crumbles in on itself.
Stars dance behind my eyelids. Moons, too. An entire galaxy forms.
Maybe it’s habit, or maybe it’s because he’s right here with me. Either way, it’s him—his face, his unyielding gaze, with his hard-set jaw and his perpetual scowl—that takes center stage behind my closed eyelids.
Just like he always does.
Just like it was always meant to be.
He’s the nebula, surrounded by cosmic stardust.
He’s my world: My lifeline. My sanctuary. My home.
“Open those eyes,” he grits out.
Without hesitation, I do.
Deep onyx orbs bore into me as he dives back in and suckles my breast, fueling another wave of release, pushing me higher.
I stare, mouth agape, my orgasm growing rather than cresting and ebbing.
Growing and growing.
Grinding and giving.
He pops off my tit and pulls on my piercings. “That’s my fucking girl.”
Tears spring to my eyes as liquid heat shoots up and down my spine.
I’m gushing, soaking through my panties and pants until a dark stain blooms on my jeans.
“That’s my fucking wife.”
As the last word leaves him with a groan, he throws his head back, exposing his Adam’s apple and the throbbing pulse of his neck.
I melt against him as my orgasm keeps coming, every inch of me yearning to be closer, to feel him everywhere. I’m ruined, all my morals and sense of self shattered as I give in and let satisfaction consume me. I’m overwhelmed, but in the best way.
I can’t go any higher; I can’t fall any lower. I only exist in the shock waves and afterglow of that release.
I feel alive, having finally broken through the barrier that kept us apart for so long.
With my bare chest pressed against his front, there’s no mistaking the fast beat of his heart against my sternum.
The sound only intensifies as I rest my cheek on his chest.
Craning back, I plant a kiss at the hollow of his throat.
In answer, he smooths his hands down my back tenderly. Rubbing along my spine. Massaging over my hips.
Holy shit. That happened.
I want to cry with relief and scream in despair.
His touch grows more deliberate as my heart rate settles and I relax against him.
I’m so deeply satisfied, the edges of sleep threaten to pull me under.
But then his hands veer off course and his fingers brush along the waistband of my jeans, and awareness dances up my spine.
My heart catches in my throat when Ty grips the front of my jeans.
He undoes the button, and as he pulls on the zipper, a switch flips and my body goes rigid. As if a bucket of ice water has been dumped over my head, waking me up to reality. The events of the last few moments replay in my mind, flashing warnings about what will happen next if I don’t stop this.
I scramble back, my hands splayed over his chest.
“No,” I tell him firmly, adrenaline coursing through me.
Eyes narrowed, he searches my face.
I shake my head, my movements jerky but firm.
He cocks one brow, though he doesn’t move.
I grip his wrists and pull his hands away from my body.
“I said no,” I repeat, deadly calm.
Jaw ticking, he stares me down. Then, with a swallow, he nods. “So that’s the line?”
He jerks his neck from side to side, releasing a rapid succession of cracks and pops.
“Another man can fuck you from behind when you’re wearing my jersey,” he seethes, “and I can make you come so hard you cry, but the second I really want to feel you—to feel what’s fucking mine—you draw the line?”
Fuck.
When he puts it like that…
But no. I said no, and I need to respect my boundary, no matter how shaky.
I ignore the desire that’s already accumulating low in my core once more and swallow past the trepidation. Then I sit up and look him dead in the eye and rebutton my jeans.
“This is the line.”
He holds up both hands in surrender, though his face is stony.
Without warning, he gets to his feet, holding me under the arms so I don’t fall backward. Then he spins so I’m the one seated on the couch and backs up.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says as he strides for the door. “And the next night,” he grits out over his shoulder. “And the night after that. I’ll be here as much as I can be. And I fully intend to sleep in your bed when my schedule permits.”
I open my mouth to argue.
“You hold on to your fucking line tonight, petit diable,” he says before I can put my thoughts into words. “Just know it’s not going to be the line for long.”
With that, he walks out of the room and closes the door softly behind him.