Chapter 42
PAIGE
I follow him into the large bathroom. Just hours ago, he was seated on the edge of that bathtub, letting me pad foundation over the bruises.
Now he’s gripping the edge of the vanity counter with both hands. Dark hair hangs down over his forehead, thick and mussed.
“Don’t come in here,” he says. His eyes are near black. “I’m too… fuck. I don’t have the patience for bullshit.”
I look down at the clear outline of his erection. At his arms braced against the sink and the tense line of his jaw. “You need to come.”
“How observant you are.”
“And you’re cruel,” I say with a smile, “when you’re hurting. Because that hurts. Doesn’t it?”
He doesn’t admit it. He just takes a deep breath instead, his chest expanding. “Some cocktail of drugs mixed into the shots. That’s why you don’t touch them, Paige. Never touch them.”
I take a step closer, and his focus sharpens. Like he’s aware of every inch between us. “So you’re just going to… jerk off in here until it goes down?”
“Yes,” he says in a short tone. “Unless you have a better idea.”
My hand aches again. I think of the hardness beneath me, of his lips on mine. Of the hand between my thighs moving and his satisfied tone. You’re wet.
“Let me,” I say, and I slide up beside him on the counter. I’m good at being reckless, and this feels like recklessness itself.
He goes still. “Don’t,” he warns.
“Do you not want me to?”
“You can’t touch me, Paige. I won’t… I can’t…”
“I’ll just help out,” I say. “Lend a hand. That’s it.” I run my fingers along the sharp edge of his stubbled jaw. His pupils are blown wide. “I did promise to be the perfect wife.”
“You’re being sweet,” he says. “Which means you want something in return.”
“Maybe I just want the satisfaction.” I run my hand down his chest to his belt buckle. It feels like playing with fire. My fingertips buzz where I touch him.
“You’ll make me pay for this later. Won’t you?” He shakes his head slowly but doesn’t move away. He looks down at my hands undoing his belt, reaching for his zipper. “But I can’t resist. That’s victory, isn’t it? You’ll win this one.”
It is.
He’s right about that.
And I’ll let him focus on that so he doesn’t realize just how quick my own breathing is. He helps me, roughly tugging his boxer briefs down.
My breath catches.
His cock is large and hard, and he’s already glistening at the head. He bobs out against the coldness of the marble vanity. A few snaking veins run up his length.
My hand finds him immediately, and I wrap my fingers around him. He’s hot to the touch.
Rafe releases a hissed breath. “Careful, Wilde.”
“Is that what you want?” I slide my hand down his length, soft skin and hardness beneath and smooth over his slick head. My stomach tightens. Handsome here too, and so painfully hard that it makes my mouth dry. “Careful?” I ask.
His hand is still gripping the vanity’s edge like it’s a lifeline. I stroke him with barely there pressure and tease the head. “Is that really want you want?”
“Paige,” he mutters, and his lips part. “Putain, no. I don’t want careful. You know I don’t like careful.”
And I do.
Even though he presents as controlled, and refined, and elegant, beneath the surface, he’s as wild as I am.
I tighten my grip and twist my hand on the next stroke. He chokes out a groan like it causes him pain, and his arms tense. I stroke him firmly, rhythmically, but not too quick.
He’s never looked at me this much before.
His eyes linger everywhere. My lips, my neck, my breasts, my legs, my hair. Everywhere they brush, I grow hotter.
He’s the one on display, but I feel naked beneath that gaze.
“You’re the cruel one,” he says when I grip him so tight that he winces. But he doesn’t move away.
I reach below to grip his balls. He groans again, and the arms braced against the sink tense. He’s still wearing his shirt. I want it off so I can see more of the chest I’ve come to crave. The dark chest hair, the abs, the scar.
“Off,” I tell him, and pull at his shirt with my free hand. He doesn’t hesitate. He tears it off, tosses it behind him.
Here in the bathroom with me, his dark hair mussed and eyes hooded in pleasure-pain, he’s more handsome than I’ve ever seen him.
“You’re doing so well,” he tells me in a hoarse voice. I speed up.
He groans like I’m ripping his soul apart. I take it all in, this man in all his uncontrolled glory. What would it feel like to have him inside me?
When he’s this hard, this pained, this needy?
“I’m going to come.” It’s a half-barked order, his face only inches away from me. “Please.”
I consider stopping, and I revel in the thought of causing him more pain, before I decide to give him the relief he’s asking me for. I want to see him come too, and I’ve never been able to delay gratification.
So I keep stroking him.
He groans, an agonized sound, and spasms in my hand as he comes into the sink. I stroke him until the weeping tip stops spewing, still duskily red.
He reaches down and circles my wrist, stilling my movements. I think he’s going to pull it away. But instead he tugs my hand to his bare chest and flattens it against his heart.
It’s pounding beneath my palm.
There’s high color on his cheeks. “Do you feel like being cruel,” he asks, “a few more times?”
He comes twice more.
His groans grow harsher each time, and the room smells thickly of sex. The throbbing low in my stomach has intensified. The shot was his, and the mistake his, but I wonder if some of it hasn’t transferred over to me.
Rafe’s eyes are half dazed, and he takes my hand away with a wince. He’s only half hard now. The last orgasm, he’d barely come anything at all, but he’d still groaned like it was necessary.
“I need a shower before I try to sleep,” he mutters. “Do you want one too? You can go first.”
Is that because he’s planning on staying in there for a long time? To use the cold water?
I could use a shower to cool off myself.
I nod and step toward the large shower. His eyes are locked on me. I’ve been swimming in them for the last half hour. His want is a palpable thing.
I pull my dress over my head and drop it to the ground. It’s not the first time I’ve stripped in front of him. But the last time was with anger, and frustration, and a desire to punish him.
Now I want to keep bathing in his gaze.
It feels better than winning. It feels like triumph, to have him watching me like I’m the only thing he wants. The only thing he needs. He leans back against the counter, shirt still off, pants hung low around his hips, and his cock back in hand.
I never knew he could be this… undone.
Now that I know, it undoes something in me too.
I shimmy out of my panties and undo my bra, and step into the shower. He keeps watching me. There’s fire in his eyes.
He grimaces in pain. “Fuck,” he mutters. My eyes dip down, to where he’s growing hard. Again.
“How?” I ask him.
His answer is just looking at me. Everywhere. His gaze rakes over my body, and I let him. It’s warmer than the water coming out of the handheld shower nozzle. Nearly as warm as the flames between my legs.
There’s that intense focus to him again, the one that makes my stomach tighten. Like I’m the most important thing he’s ever seen.
His lips have parted and he reaches down, taking himself in hand. “You know how,” he says. “You know why.”
Because of me.
He starts to stroke himself slowly, eyes locked on me. The air in here is quickly becoming hotter with the steam. I step beneath it and lets it wash over my hair, my arms, my body. My nipples are hard points of want. When I brush a hand over them, Rafe groans like I’m torturing him.
The muscles in his arm flex with each stroke, and I can’t look away either. It’s intoxicating to see him like this. Looking at me like I’m all he’s ever wanted.
Maybe that’s why I do what I do next. Or maybe it’s because I love torturing him with what he can’t have. Either way, I push the shower nozzle down between my legs.
Rafe groans out loud and says something in French.
No. I need to know what that was.
I move the nozzle away. “Tell me what you said.”
“I said that your beauty is going to kill me.”
My heart stutters. It’s power, this. And it’s intoxicating.
“One more orgasm,” I tell him, and move the nozzle back.
It doesn’t take long for my own body to respond.
I’ve been keyed up from seeing him come, and standing here bathed in his obvious need, I come against the steady water pressure on my clit.
I have to hold on to the tiled wall for support and keep my eyes on him.
He comes with a groaned curse. There’s not much spend this time. His cock is dark red and there’s a glazed look to his eyes.
“Fuck, you’re good,” he tells me. He’s resting a hand against the sink and looks like he’s trying to catch his breath. There’s wonder in his voice. “You came, too.”
“Don’t mention it.” I leave the water running and step out of the shower. We stand only inches away from one another for a few long, hot moments, and then he steps past me into the shower.
My legs feel weak.
I sweep myself in one of the hotels fluffy white towels and watch him stand beneath the spray of the overhead shower nozzle.
It slicks his dark hair against his scalp and makes the scar along his side stand out.
His thick cock hangs between his legs, finally looking sated. It’s been well used tonight.
My head spins.
I brush my teeth and walk over to the bed. It’s big, and fluffy too, and I steal one of his t-shirts out of his bag to wear to bed. My heart is still beating fast. I had come. In front of him.
Rafe comes out a few minutes later with the towel slung around his waist. We look at each other for a few long seconds. The fire inside me is gone. But there’s something else, deep in my stomach, that burns in a softer way.
“Sleep here. Not on the couch,” I say.
He nods and walks over to his suitcase. I stare up at the darkened ceiling while he pulls on clothes and climbs into bed.
“Better?” I ask him.
“Yes.” His voice is low. “You?”
“Yes.”
The darkness swallows the room whole. Maybe what’s just happened is best kept there. The need, the taunting, the intensity. He’s not someone I should be having this kind of fun with.
I wanted him to admit to wanting me.
I never wanted to admit to the same.
“Paige,” he says. “Tomorrow…”
“We pretend this never happened?” I ask. It’s what I asked him after he held me through my panic attack. We’ve never been good at letting each other see our weakness.
There’s a long pause. “Yes,” he says. “That’s probably for the best.”
“Yeah.” I press a hand against my breastbone. My heart is beating steadily behind it. More steadily than I would have expected. I haven’t had another bout of panic since the wedding dress fitting.
Nights are usually tough. Somehow I know this one won’t be.
“Good night,” he says.
I turn onto my side and catch the scent of him. I don’t know whether it’s from the T-shirt I’ve stolen or him, lying beside me, sharing the same bed.
“Good night,” I whisper.