Chapter 11 #2
As if Gage knows what I’m thinking, and he probably does given that I’m trembling and vibrating against him, wobbling like I’ve just downed half a bar’s worth of drinks and I’m trying to make my way in a strong wind on seven inch heels.
He wraps one arm around my waist and with the other hand, he spreads my legs and roughly hooks his fingers under the waistband of my panties.
He tears them down my legs, so rough that my skin burns, but I close my eyes and let my head bang back against the wall.
This is me.
This is me and him.
It’s just us.
Tonight, there is no past. No other Ami. No memories. No scars. No brutal reality. No fear.
Fear. I’m so fucking sick of being afraid all the time. For the first time in ten years, I just want to be.
So when Gage uses his strong hand to guide my thighs apart, when he bends his head and lifts one leg, then the other, over his strong, rippling shoulders, I let him.
Not only do I let him, but I let my head loll against the wall.
I slam my eyes shut and just focus on breathing.
In and out. In and out. I savor the rippling muscle below me.
I can feel every movement he makes. Every bunch and bulge of his muscles.
The wild heat that floods me like an out of control fire, jumping all its boundaries and igniting me.
The lusty whimper that tears from my throat doesn’t sound like me, but I don’t care.
I’m too busy feeling every strain and pull below me, of a body so much bigger and stronger than me.
I love the way he dominates me. The way he’s completely in control, even as he kneels.
Even as he stands below me, I feel like he’s a giant, towering over my petite form.
I should feel threatened. I should be scared.
But I don’t get danger from Gage. He’s never hurt me.
He had plenty of reasons to if he was that sort of man.
But while I know next to nothing about my husband of one year, I know he has his principles.
The fact that he willingly paid the price for my accusations shows me what kind of man he is.
I love that when I crack an eyelid and look down, I see the contrast between us, his dark head against my pale skin, bronzed hands braced on my porcelain thighs, his massive fingers, all strength and stone—the hands of a warrior, digging into my tender flesh.
His hot breath puffs out against my overheated skin, and I jack my hips shamelessly into his face. I want this. I need this. All of it. Him. I need him.
“Oh god, please,” I moan and my voice is heady, lust filled and wild.
He obeys, pressing an open mouthed kiss to the center of me. I throw back my head again, the loud bang of my skull hitting the wall echoing through the apartment, but I barely register the sound or the dull throb of pain.
All I feel is him.
The scrape of his stubble over my silken heat, an unbearable friction that is so delicious my mouth waters.
It starts a new fire in the pit of my belly and makes me want to scream.
He kisses me again, a messy sucking sound that makes me blush and shiver at the same time.
None of it compares to that first hot pass of his amazing tongue.
He dips his head and sweeps his tongue over me, licking me from my front, all the way to the back.
He makes a sound after, deep in his throat, of pure satisfaction, and I feel it all the way in my curled toes.
My thighs tremble harder, locking around his shoulders and I curl my fingers into his hair, silently demanding more.
He takes those silent orders well. He does it again, licking me in a scalding pass, but this time, he curls his tongue and darts up into my entrance. I mewl, the fullness of his tongue delicious and erotic and so foreign that when he’s gone, I feel completely empty.
“Fuck, you taste so sweet,” Gage moans against my sex.
My hips jerk, grinding my sex against his face, trying to ease the ache that is steadily growing with every second. I whimper at the new friction, but when his tongue rolls lazily over my clit, I scream. My breathing changes, becoming sharp, short little pants.
“You like that, Ami? You like my tongue on your cunt?”
My hands tighten in his hair at his words. “Yes,” I manage to answer him, and obviously he’s pleased, because his tongue rolls back in a slow, meandering circle over my clit, right where I want him.
He knows it and obviously he’s decided to torture me, because the second I rock my hips, rolling against his glorious mouth, positioning myself right where I need to be, he tears away.
He pays homage to the rest of me, licking and sucking me noisily while he hums and purrs like a starved man seated at a gourmet buffet.
“I want you to come on my tongue,” he says, after a minute of torture.
I barely register the words through my fog addled brain.
“But you choose how you want it. Do you want my mouth on your clit? Do you want me to suck on it and tease you slowly, make you shatter over and over again, until your beautiful little cunt is raining down all over my chin and your thighs, dripping into your ass? I’m not gonna waste a single drop.
I’ll lick it from your thighs, the gorgeous crack of your ass, and between your folds.
And then, when I’m done, I’ll fuck my tongue up inside your tight heat, just to make sure that I didn’t miss a drop. ”
Fuck.
His words nearly send me over the edge into the delicious spiral of a climax that I’m half sure will destroy me.
If he’d just bent his head and taken me, I would have let him.
But then he raised his head. He studied me, the fire of passion burning bright in his black eyes.
He’s so beautiful that he steals my breath and I’m lost to him.
Lost to the essence and fibers of my being, sucked in, but I’m like a moth, burning up in a flame that’s too bright. That was always destined to destroy me.
“Fucking hell, you’re too beautiful for words.
” His lips move, and I barely register what he’s saying, because his hand slides up, peeling my dress away from my hips, bringing it higher, edging that protective layer of fabric from me like he wants to rip it from me completely, to bare me to him. All of me.
All the ruined parts of me.
Everything.
“No!” I gasp, frantically clawing at my dress as it hovers perilously at my hips, just below my stomach. Just barely covering everything I never wanted another living being to see.
I twist and writhe, the fabric in my hands, my fingers like claws.
I kick out, nearly hitting him in the face.
Gage stumbles, nearly taking me down with him, but he catches himself, righting himself before he goes down.
His hands splay out behind him, and I take the opportunity to move.
To get the hell out of there. Away from him.
Away from the flames of hell licking up and reaching out, ready to claim and maim and destroy me. To burn me up completely.
The second my feet hit the floor, I tug my dress down, covering myself, and I run blindly. I hear him crashing after me, his big footsteps eating up the space too easily. Coming for me.
I reach my tote first. I claw it open, even though it doesn’t look right.
Nothing looks right. The world is swimming, a violent cascade of shimmering, aching madness.
I realize, as my fingers curl around the pages and I whirl, thrusting them out in front of me like a cross to ward off my own personal demons, that it’s because I’m crying.
My tears paint the world in a violent cacophony of swimming, undulating color.
Color that isn’t real, color that isn’t there. Color that will slay me.
Just like my past.