Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Mina
Conversation flows easily from then on, just like when we texted. Neither one of us goes near any topic that might make me think about facing my mother—although the dread stays there the entire time.
We go from talking about movies, to stories about our jobs, to random things that happened during our childhoods.
By the time we’re walking up the steps to my apartment, hand in hand, I’m so full of happiness—and delicious food—that I think I might throw up. The feeling ebbs away when we step into the darkness of my quiet home and continues trickling from me when I lead us to my bedroom.
Trepidation and nerves take its place. The toy that keeps rubbing me is a constant reminder that this night hasn’t ended.
My breath catches in my throat when the door snicks shut behind us. Joyce’s car wasn’t outside, so it’s just me and Leo and the golden light from the lamp on my bedside table.
I stand at the foot of my bed, unsure what to do. He stays four feet away, leaning against the doorframe, watching me.
The shadows along his jaw, cast by the hard ridge of his nose, make him look even sharper than usual. The soft lighting highlights his cheek and around one side of his kissable lips. The dark strands of his hair are no longer perfectly styled like they were when he first walked in hours ago.
Leo looks both comfortable and ready to pounce.
His jacket is in the living room somewhere, his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, so I’m not sure whether to look at his face, the way the tendons in his forearms feather, or the hint of chest peeking out from his unbuttoned shirt.
The moment stretches and builds, stealing the oxygen out of the room. It gets worse when he pushes off the door and takes a purposeful step forward. Then another. Until he’s right in front of me.
I fist my hands so he doesn’t see them shake. I’m grateful when he caresses my hip and takes the lead, turning me around to have my back to him.
Goosebumps dance along my skin as he skates his fingers over my exposed shoulders, down the curve of my spine, following the lace trim of the dress to the zipper.
“Have I told you how hard it’s been to keep my hands to myself while you’re in this dress?” His voice is gravel, only slightly above a whisper.
My core spasms, both pleasantly and unpleasantly. I shake my head even though it’s a rhetorical question.
He moves to the side, angling me toward the bookshelf. My eyes widen, searching the rows for the camera he’s been claiming is there. I finally see it: a button-sized dot in the eye socket of a resin skull.
It showed up months ago amongst the packages of clothing when I first reached out to Sabrina. I don’t recall finding a home for it, but I do recall a flicker of confusion when I found it in my room. I passed it off as poor memory.
Now, I realize it has a clear, unobstructed view of my bed.
I try to find it in me to be mad or feel violated over learning he’s been watching me since before we started talking. All that’s there is regret over not doing the same thing to him, so I could’ve fed my obsession the way he has.
I’m torn between cowering and standing straighter as Leo unzips the dress and inches it down my frame, slowly exposing my breasts to give the camera a show.
The way he gently pulls the fabric off reminds me of a historian handling a priceless artifact—sure, but careful, like he doesn’t want to leave a mark.
Maybe he already has me trained to only do as he says because when he shifts back, and the distinct sound of buttons coming undone fills the space between my heavy breaths, I don’t dare turn around until he lets me.
My eyes flit to his bare chest, following the prominent line down the center of his torso. Shadows dance beneath each noticeable ridge in his abdomen and under his obliques. I’m not in too much denial to admit that my mouth waters slightly when I reach the V leading into his dress pants.
Leo remains unmoving to allow me to carry out my perusal.
His tattoos are more intricate in person.
The seraphim takes up the entire span of his chest while a foliage pattern curves beneath it, trailing up from his pant line on either side, and cutting off right under his pecs.
His muscles spasm beneath my fingertips as I trace the intricate lines.
Each of his sleeves has a different design. On one there’s a dragon coiling up his arm in thick, blocky ink. The other is Japanese inspired, with various creatures from their mythology.
I’ve seen him shirtless hundreds of times before. It’s always been behind a screen, recorded by a person I don’t know. To have him here in front of me, in the flesh, it almost doesn’t seem real.
And I want this to be real. I need it as badly as I need oxygen.
I don’t let myself overthink it. I wrap my hands behind his neck and pull him down, meeting him with my lips halfway.
There’s no hesitation or awkward fumbling. Leo kisses me like out of everything in this world, every lifetime, this is what we were made to do. He tastes of dinner and every depraved thing we’ve done for each other.
My core tightens around the toy from his demanding touches, soaking my panties, but the dull ache remains that starts in the center of my core and radiates outward like a shock of electricity.
My muscles tense at the pain and what it signals, but I ignore it. The sensation dampens my desire but doesn’t quash my need for him.
He grasps my hips and gropes my ass as he eases me onto the bed.
Having his imposing frame hovering over me ratchets up the believability.
I almost convince myself this isn’t a dream.
I feel his weight dipping the bed, the heat emanating from his body, every heated breath that passes through my lips.
When he reaches down to pull my panties off, my body complies without my brain’s input, raising my hips and lifting my legs so he can throw the flimsy fabric somewhere.
Nerves race through me as I dare to find the buckle of his pants and give his belt a single tug to make my intentions clear. He doesn’t stop me. For some reason, that rockets my anxiety because what if I’m not good enough for him?
I have some experience in bed, but not much past the basics. And my health issues have posed a problem in previous relationships. I don’t want to disappoint him or have him think I’m lacking because of it as well.
Threading my fingers through his hair, I kiss him harder, so he doesn’t notice the tremble in my hand as I cup his cock through the layers of fabric. The moment I make contact, he hisses, pushing himself into my grip.
My mind is too detached from my body to do anything but remain still. I knew he’d be big—I’ve seen this man in a great many pairs of sweatpants to be comfortable with that knowledge. That’s not what has made me short-circuit.
There’s something there.
On his cock, or by his cock, I don’t know. Something . . . hard. Solid. Something that’s definitely machine-made.
I curl my fingers around his shaft, grinding my palm against him through the fabric, and it’s there. There’s no mistaking it. I’d bet money on it, because it sure as hell isn’t the zipper that I’m feeling.
Curiosity overtakes my anxiety. Leo chuckles against my lips at my frantic attempt at unbuckling his belt. It takes two tries to undo it, and far longer than I’d like to unbutton his pants. He makes no move to help me; instead, he cups the nape of my skull and pulls my bottom lip between his teeth.
My core flutters, and that just makes me more desperate to get him out of his clothes.
Leo puts me out of my misery—or into it, depending on how I look at it—by leaning back, taking his kisses with him. His pants come off first, and I hold my breath when he hitches his briefs lower to pull out his cock, then shucks them off and to the side.
He kneels between my legs in all his glory, fisting his length as he stares down at me, a smug grin in place as he watches me gawk at him.
A Jacob’s Ladder.
At least six barbells are spaced along the underside of his shaft.
Leo fucking Duval has a pierced cock.
How that’s allowed for an NHL player, I don’t know, and, frankly, I don’t care. All I’m concerned about is how that’s going to feel inside me.
He closes the distance again, muttering against my ear in amusement, “Don’t be shy, baby. It’ll feel so good.”
His words are paired with a drag of his length along my sex. Each piercing rubs my clit unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
I can’t decide whether I’m excited or fucking frightened. He’s big. Everywhere. Length, girth, and he’s adding piercings to the mix.
RIP to my vagina.
He grinds his cock along my pussy again, bumping the toy as he goes—by God, he might not be in me yet, but he sure as shit isn’t wrong. I might come just from this.
“I got it for you.”
I blink in shock. Excuse me, what?
“When you first messaged during the off-season,” he says, as if that’s a sufficient explanation. At my silence, he elaborates. “I read your book.”
The color drains from my face at the same time my skin heats. He’s read my books? He . . . Oh . . . I swallow.
The character in my debut novel has a Jacob’s Ladder and takes his obsession with the heroine to new levels.
Just like Leo has done.
Therapy isn’t enough to fix whatever’s wrong in my brain for loving it this much.
I shift my hips to give him better access with his next pass, and I’m not sure which makes desire zap up my spine: his guttural moan against my jaw or the friction. He coats his cock in my wetness as he takes the soft skin of my neck into his mouth, sucking the delicate flesh.
My lower stomach convulses with each wave of desire, and my nails dig into his back, clawing when he picks up the momentum. I gasp when he gently removes the toy, and my muscles clench around nothing in a mixture of pain and need.
Unless he fucks me soon, I’m going to go downhill and last for even less time.
“Leo,” I beg, wrapping my legs around him so he gets the hint.