Chapter Twelve. Ember #3
His mouth crashes over mine, and with a whimper, I open up for him.
Maybe it was the growled possession carved into his tone or the fact no one had ever claimed me before—that no one had ever made me feel claimable—but lust flared like a struck match, burning away the shock and confusion from his earlier confessions.
In minutes, he’d changed aspects of my worldview, my life, that I’d been certain about for years.
It’d been my truth. And he’d substituted it for his.
I didn’t know how to deal with it in this moment.
Didn’t know if I wanted to. Only thing I possess one hundred percent clarity about is this relentless hunger for him.
And I’m going to allow him to consume me with it.
“We made you,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Torture by torture. Insult by insult. Neglect by neglect. We made you.”
I’m shaking my head before he even finishes the sentence.
“I made me. In spite of all of you, I made me. You don’t get to take credit. None of you do.”
I brace myself for his response, stiffen against the inevitable lashing out. It’s in the molten gleam of his eyes, rapid beating of his pulse at the base of his throat. But I don’t move. I don’t flinch. I don’t rescind my words. I just … brace. Expecting the worst.
I don’t expect a beautiful smile.
Or the pride that seems to emanate from it.
“Nah, we don’t. You did this shit. Now own it from a place of strength and not weakness. You’re nobody’s victim, Ember. Just a fucking … miracle.”
A miracle.
No, a fucking miracle.
As if my whole body—my whole damn soul—loosens in the same moment, a sob rips free from my throat. It feels like it originates from a place deeper though. A place that I’ve refused to let people in or touch in years. Thirteen, to be exact.
I start to shake, almost violently. Long, hard, protective arms band around me, and I sink into the safety of them. Asad becomes my shelter in this emotional storm. He anchors me.
And I trust that he will keep me afloat.
Because he’s been doing it for years.
I lift my face, wet, probably swollen from tears, to his and take his mouth this time.
I slide my tongue between his lips, tangle it with his, suck on him.
At the sound of his rich, luxurious groan, pride roars through me like a lion, riding shotgun next to lust and a wild, nearly feral joy that is alien as it is freeing.
With hurried, frantic movement, I claw at the waistband of his shorts, tugging it back and pulling his dick out.
My fist closes around his already thick and long flesh, and his hips punch up into my sloppy, uncoordinated stroke.
There’s nothing graceful about me pushing aside the seat of my panties.
Nothing skilled about me notching his slick, wide head at the opening of my pussy.
I crush my mouth to his, and our tongues tangle, tasting each other. Tasting us.
Though I’ve been here before, I still hold my breath. Waiting. Shivering. Savoring that first thrust. The first moment of penetration. The first stretch and burn. Raising an arm above me, I grip my own hair, tugging as I sink down his dick.
“Oh God,” I breathe, arching tight as the pleasure careens through me like lightning.
Asad cups my breast, holds me captive as he fucks me from underneath with deep, grinding thrusts. I’m open for him, vulnerable, and though I should hate it, fight it, I don’t. Instead, I indulge in it, letting him control it and just receive. Knowing he’ll take care of me.
And God, does he take care of me.
His fingers toy with my nipples, tugging, tweaking, stroking.
Drawing passion out of me, damn near marking it on my skin.
With each stroke, he stirs my lust higher, hotter.
His dick brands my pussy, possessing it, beating it out the frame and shaping it so only he will ever be enough for me.
Ever fill me. Ever satisfy me. And that thought both thrills and terrifies me.
I palm his chest and lean back, twisting my torso around so I can pick up the still-lit blunt.
Grabbing it and turning back to Asad, I meet his molten gaze as I puff on it, and the end glows red.
I squint at him through the haze of smoke, and his hooded gaze meets mine.
Lust tightens his features, and his thrusts slow, becoming a hard, filthy grind.
A shudder runs through me, and I close my eyes, glorifying in every tight circle of his pelvis against my clit.
My breath rushes out of me, a whimper escaping me.
I lift the blunt to my mouth again and drag in a long inhale full of the fragrant smoke.
Without breaking our visual connection, I lean forward and raise the hand on his chest higher until I’m pinching his chin and pressing down.
Silently demanding he open his mouth. Asad doesn’t hesitate, and I lean forward, pressing my mouth to his, and shotgunning him.
He greedily accepts the smoke I blow into him, shoving his tongue past my parted lips, chasing the last of the weed, lapping at the roof of my mouth. Sucking it off my tongue.
“Give me another one,” he roughly demands.
I obey, repeating the action. While I shotgun him again, I lower my arm and bow my head, trailing my fingers over my chest and belly until my tips stroke the place where we’re connected.
Fire races through my veins as I circle my clit, playing with myself, shuddering under my touch and his possession.
I shift and bring my other hand down, tracing my folds, sliding it over his hard flesh as it drives in and out of me.
We—his precum and my moisture—coat my fingers, and I rub it into the skin of my lower stomach, as if I can somehow mark myself.
Crazy, wild. But that’s what he does to me. Makes me want the impossible.
Trembling, I return the blunt to the table, continuing the sensual torment.
“Gotdamn, Ember. Gotdamn, baby girl,” he grinds out, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss under my ear. “Get there. Get us there.”
His fingers slide over my hip, then tangle with mine.
We both strum my clit, working me in tandem.
In perfect synchronicity. Pleasure, so sharp, so loud and bright, vibrates within me.
Crackles along my skin like electricity over exposed nerves.
My hips buck against our joined touch, turning me into a willing captive to his dick, our fingers.
“Asad,” I rasp, my voice serrated by raw lust. “Please. I need … Oh God.” I groan, shaking. “I just need.” I’m not above begging. I want to be ended by this lust.
“Hold on to me,” he rumbles, and not waiting for me to comply, he cuffs my wrist and draws my arms up and around his neck. “Hold on, and don’t let go.”
I can’t tell if he’s referring to now or ever. And I don’t question it.
And that is foolish.
Gripping his hair, I turn myself over to him completely. And as he fucks me, as I fuck him right back, I break. Crack and explode into pieces. And even then, it’s not enough.
And I’m just aware enough to be scared by that.