33. Vian #2
“And if you dare to make yourself come without my permission, I’ll bind your hands and legs.”
“You fucking asshole.”
I shrug. “Just three words. That’s all I need, baby, and I will give you all the orgasms, everything you wish and more.”
“I hate you,” she says hoarsely.
“It’s not that. Maybe next time.” I stand up and go to the kitchen to prepare her some chamomile tea.
When I return, I find her in a cross-legged position, staring at the horizon, cum and spit sticking to her face and chest. The image is so potent, I struggle not to say fuck it and give her whatever she desires.
I reach out my arm with the mug. “Made you some tea.”
“I hoped for some manners,” she snickers, but takes it from my hand and places it on the coffee table.
I chuckle and tip her face up, gathering some of my cum and her spit with my thumb before slipping it inside her mouth.
She sucks on it, and as our eyes meet, she swallows me whole––even better than she can swallow my cock. I am drowning in her and fuck if I want to resurface.
“Such a beautiful mouth who can sass me but not tell the truth. I’ll fuck it out of you. You’ll see, baby.”
She gulps and slaps my hand away, bending over the table to grab the cup of tea.
Rounding the chaise, I lean down on my side, waiting for her to finish drinking the soothing concoction.
Then, I slide my arms around her waist, bringing her closer to me.
Lying in my arms, she mumbles, “Such a gentleman.”
“Never pretended to be one. You were always a little rebel. Falling for the bad boy.”
“You mean criminal.”
“Didn’t stop you, and what was your line of business again?”
She glares at me. “I should have married Conrad instead.”
“Watch out, Zara, I’ve killed men for less,” I say earnestly.
She gestures at me with her hand. “You need little incentive.”
“True, but you saw me in action. What do you think I would do to competition?”
“He kisses better.”
Gripping her chin, I bring our mouths an inch apart. “Don’t come crying when I deliver his lips so you can remember how fucking good they kissed you,” I grit out. Jesus, she fucking loves to undo me at the seams.
“I would never forgive you.”
“You don’t want to forgive me anyway, so what the fuck do I have to lose?” I snap and storm out, going into the living room.
At the bar, I pour myself a glass of whiskey, needing something strong to keep me anchored. Fuck, she can push me to the edge like no one else. I lift the glass halfway to my mouth but decide against it. She can’t drink to forget her sorrows either. It’s the least I can do.
I hurl it across the room, and the glass smashes against the wall, shattering into hundreds of mini crystals on the floor just like my chances at redemption.
“It should bring me immense pleasure to torture you, yet it hurts me too,” she sighs, and I grip the edge of the bar, not knowing what to do.
“I hate that I want to hate you and can’t,” she screams so loudly it pierces my ears and punctures my heart.
Cocking my head, I seek her eyes. “I know, mi sol. I know. But even if I were sorry for everything else, I can’t be sorry for that.”
“Don’t kill him, okay? I lied. I felt nothing. One kiss from you, and I light up.”
It brings me back from the clutches of despair, and I release the bar as if it were the only thing keeping me sane.
Her delicate feet pad on the floor, her voice softening. “You didn’t drink.”
“You can’t drink.”
She nods, avoiding my gaze. “My anemia.”
“Yeah, your anemia.” My head hangs, and I close my eyes for a moment. “I can’t be sorry for that either. Don’t hate me for that too.”
She places her palm on my arm. “I was there too… It takes two.”
I catch every fear displayed on her face—sheer vulnerability and raw agony.
“I don’t like you turning your back on me. I should want it, should be doing everything in my power to make you leave and never return, but it triggers me. The image of you walking away crushes me.”
I palm her face and lower my forehead to hers. “I never walked away, mi sol, but I had to leave so you could live.”
She leans into my touch, and I caress her soft cheeks. “So what? Did my fucked-up brain twist it?”
“I’m the fucked up one.”
This conversation shifts into something soul-cleansing, the embers of hope flickering back to life and warming my chest.
Looking down, she plays with the hem of my shirt. “The pregnancy makes me vulnerable.”
Tears gather in my eyes, potent emotions threatening to knock me down.
She lifts her chin, and our eyes lock, mirroring each other’s raw feelings. “I have all these fears, all these insecurities… I’m an even bigger mess. But I want this baby. I truly do, just like I wish we could make it work.”
“Then we’re going to make it work.” I brush my mouth against hers. “You said it, baby. Thank you for telling me.”
She bites her lip, shrugging. “You knew.”
I grin and gather her into my arms. “I didn’t know you wanted me to fuck you this badly,” I say, trying for some levity.
She slaps my chest. “Be serious.”
“I am.” I frown, glancing at her belly. “But––”
“Making love won’t hurt it,” she breathes.
“Please, just say the three words. I don’t care if you believe them or not.”
“I am yours,” she confesses, breaking the dam of my control.
I’d give her the world if she wanted it.
Yet the thing she desires most is not to love me anymore.