Chapter 3 #2
The longer I stay in the fantasy, the better I feel. Like I’ve stepped outside reality entirely for a few stolen hours.
With a savage groan, Mr. Wicked grips my hips and takes control, slamming deeper into my body. I cry out and grab his shoulders, feeling completely possessed and full.
Every thrust steals another piece of coherent thought from my mind, but I go completely blank when he starts fucking me like he wants me to know I belong to him in this wild moment.
I come again, pleasure ripping through my body like blades.
I throw my head back and allow the merciless orgasm to take me.
I barely manage to control myself before he stops his relentless thrusts. In the next second, he lifts me off of him and bends me over the edge.
I glance over my shoulder, back at him.
He grins, the muscle on the side of his neck throbbing. “Time to make you scream, Butterfly.” The dark promise locks me down.
He positions himself behind me and plunges back into me. In this position, he feels bigger and hits the right spot. My body goes up in flames then I’m lost in him. So lost I don’t want to find my way back.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he rumbles. “You feel so good around my cock.”
Even if I hadn’t lost my ability to speak, I don’t think I could have answered. My mind is twisted into all sorts of knots, each one tightening with pleasure the more he gives me.
The moment he speeds up, I know he’s going to make good on his word.
I’m helpless in his hold, helpless to his dominance and the intense pleasure coursing through my veins.
He tunnels into me hard and sure, and that does it. I scream.
My desperate shriek echoes through the air, then another orgasm sweeps through me.
I’m glad I have something to hold on to. A deep grunt rumbles in his chest and his cock throbs inside me. The sensation arouses me all over again.
He keeps going and going, filling the air with the loud erotic sound of us. I’m spent, but still, I take what he’s giving me, savoring the feel of him inside me.
I feel alive for the first time in years and, like an addict, I want more.
More of him. More of this feeling. More of the version of myself that exists around him.
His ferocious pace intensifies, building faster and harder until his cock stills inside me and the warmth of his cum floods my body.
We share the high of the last wave of pleasure, then his grip loosens.
My breath becomes ragged, like I’ve just run across the country, and sweat runs down my back. I can feel his sweat, too, and hear his heavy breathing.
I grip the edge of the tub, waiting for my mind to return to Earth. It never does.
My handsome stranger pulls out of me but holds me tightly against his chest. His heart beats against my back, just as fast and erratic as mine.
He moves to my ear. “Come home with me,” he whispers, his voice rough.
Home?
Christ. He was serious about me being in his bed, then. But home… as in not here anymore.
Can I do that?
It’s one thing to have sex with a man I just met, but to go to his home, where I’ll be completely at his mercy?
The invitation hangs between us heavier than all the dirty things we’ve already done together.
I look up at him, my cheek brushing against the scruff of his beard. I search for something in his eyes that would, what? Assure me?
It might be a little too late for that. I try anyway, but all I find lurking in the darkness of his expression is that resilience, a gentle reminder that this is a man who won’t take no for an answer.
“I…” My voice trails off. I still don’t know what to say.
“I dare you to say yes, Butterfly.” A sexy grin that could melt the panties off a nun glides across his lips, and I’m a goner. “Come home with me.”
Adventure. That’s what he is to me. A taste of something I can’t say no to. And maybe that’s exactly what makes him dangerous. But… perfect.
“Yes,” I mutter, my body taking over.
He smiles back at me and lifts me out of the hot tub.
This feels right. There’s no way it should.
But it does. And I’m going home with him.
* * *
I stir, waking slowly to warm sunlight and the scent of the sea.
For a moment, the smell throws me.
I remember moving to New York, but my apartment is miles away from the sea.
I shuffle and note that I’m on a bed that doesn’t feel like my new one. Granted, I’ve only slept on it for one night; that’s not long enough to get used to a bed.
My eyes open fully and meet long velvet drapes, blowing either side of an opened French window. Beyond it is a scene that must be a screensaver—golden sand and the bright blue sea.
The soft buttery sunlight indicates it must be quite early in the morning. Just after sunrise.
The salty breeze drifts through the room, stirring the curtains softly enough to feel dreamlike.
I move to sit, but the arm resting across my waist stops me.
In that instant, I remember what happened the night before.
I turn my head to the other side, and my breathing stalls when I find the man I spent the night with lying next to me.
Mr. Wicked.
He’s fast asleep, and naked, with the sheet barely covering him.
He’d called me a masterpiece. But his carved, tattooed body in the bright sunlight is devastating enough to redefine the word.
God.
We slept together. A lot. And sleep? Really, Piper? That wasn’t sleeping together or mere sex.
It was fucking. Wild and reckless and nothing like the careful person I’ve spent the last few years trying to become.
The sweet ache between my thighs is a prominent reminder. So are the scandalous memories resurfacing in my mind.
The things I did with him… Lord.
My entire body flushes with heat from the ghost of his touch and relentless possession.
When we arrived here, at his home, it was as if we’d lost our minds and gone wild.
As soon as we stepped through the door, he was on me.
My clothes were gone within seconds and he took me right there against the front door.
From there, we came up here to his bedroom, where we stayed, continuing to devour each other.
Now I’m here, and am experiencing that displaced feeling again sitting in my stomach like a boulder sinking in acid.
What should I do now?
Leave. That’s the obvious answer because really, I can’t stay.
Men like Mr. Wicked don’t expect you to stay after a one-nighter. I couldn’t imagine staying, either. Now that the sexual haze is gone, I’d just look clingy. Then he’d have the awkward task of getting rid of me. Though I doubt that would be awkward for him. It’s me who will feel awkward.
A man like him would have women leaving his bed all the time.
So… I should count myself fortunate to have woken up before him and just… go.
I look at him, though, and can’t move. Not yet.
Leaving suddenly feels harder than it should.
It’s dawned on me that the moment I leave, the game will be over. That illusion I created of a safe space to seize the moment will be gone.
No more wicked dares.
In reality, as much as I’d love to just step back into the shoes of the girl I used to be, I know I can’t. It’s not that simple. That’s what happens when you change, whether for better or worse: you can never go back without the scars that changed you.
It was good to live for one night, though. I can take that with me. Even if reality is waiting for me the second I walk out that door.
I allow myself a few moments to admire my handsome stranger.
He looks just as menacing asleep as he does awake. It’s the dark brows and the sharp cut of his jawline. You can’t tame those.
The gentle rise and fall of his chest are the only things that look soft about him. And even then, that’s beneath the rigid peaks of muscle and the tattoos of ravens in flight lining the entire left side of his abs.
It’s time to go. Leave before my curiosity can tempt me. Besides, I have work.
It’s the first real day of the rest of my life.
Slowly, I shift from under his arm and free myself. Thankfully, I don’t disturb him.
I slide off the bed, my feet meeting soft carpet.
I look around for my clothes and remember they never made it upstairs, so I grab the next best thing to cover my nakedness: his shirt.
I shrug into it, pulling it around my body. I hope no one is downstairs.
This looks like the kind of house where there would be housekeepers or someone along that line.
We’re in the Hamptons. That much I know. Mr. Wicked lives in a mansion-sized beach house that looks like something from a TV show about celebrities.
Last night when I got here, that was the only thing I processed before he consumed me. And the fact that he must be meh-ga rich.
I give him one last look.
“Thank you for making me feel alive again,” I murmur.
We would never meet again.
Like the passing ships, it is time to say goodbye.
With that, I leave.