Eight #3
This then was the reason for the ambush.
Sam Kage was normally very self-possessed.
He didn’t engage in self-doubt, he didn’t rattle, but him seeing me first with Cristo, then a second time with him, and now it looked like I was out at a club—which I was, but not how he thought—it probably freaked him out.
And he would never blow his cover or act in an irresponsible, ethically or morally, way, but he was manhandling me because if he didn’t, it would eat him up.
Sam needed to know that everything at home was solid, so then he could go out into the world with his armor in place.
I had forgotten that. I had forgotten I was the man’s home. I made him indestructible.
“Jory!”
As I had been working things out, he was slowly dying inside—I saw it in his eyes.
“There will never be anyone but you, Sam Kage—you know that. How could there be?”
His very satisfied male grunt rose from his chest as he drove up into me at the same time I pushed down. And he was huge, and I was tight. I would have yelled the walls down if he hadn’t drowned the noise with a kiss.
It felt like my flesh was on fire; the burn was incredible, the rings of muscle breached without warning or foreplay. When he pulled nearly out, I hissed with the pain as he thrust back in even deeper.
I couldn’t breathe. My whole world was sharp, stinging, piercing heat.
And then he fisted my shaft and tugged from balls to head as he again eased free. My body relaxed for a heartbeat before his hips snapped forward and he plunged inside again. As his enormous cock filled me, dragging over sensitized skin, scraping my prostate, I shuddered with the feel of him.
“Jory,” he gasped, holding me on the wall as he pounded in and out, setting a savage tempo as he ravaged me.
My body, which had wanted him out, welcomed him in, opened, and held tight, my muscles bearing down, clenching, as he fucked me hard.
“You feel so good,” he panted as he buried himself in my ass.
He made my body remember what it was for. His touch on my skin, his breath on my face, his smell, all of it so desperately needed, so utterly wanted.
It took only seconds, and I was so ready, so aching and on edge, thrumming with pent-up desire, all of it for him, waiting for him and now unleashed.
“Sam, I’m gonna come,” I moaned, my voice cracking, broken.
He grabbed my cock hard, jerking me off, and his hand over my mouth muffled the sounds I was making as my body surrendered to the man I loved.
I spurted over his hand, wrist, and shirt.
I came hard and long as he rammed in and out of me, never stopping, never slowing, riding out the aftershocks that triggered his own searing orgasm.
He spilled inside, filling me, overflowing me, and I felt the thick, hot liquid rolling down my thighs.
But he continued his deep in-and-out plunge, and I felt how deep he was inside me, my hole stretched to accommodate his length and hardness.
“You’re mine,” he told me as he reclaimed my mouth, making sure I knew who I belonged to.
I was trembling hard, arms and legs wrapped around him as he finally stilled, making no move to pull out, the kiss no longer punishing, gentling, becoming slow and sensual as he sucked on my tongue.
“Jory,” he finally gasped, lips hovering over mine.
“Come home and talk to me.”
“Yes.”
“Tonight,” I pleaded as I ran my tongue over his bottom lip.
He whimpered in the back of his throat.
The sound—that I could make him do that, the big, strong man that he was—was so hot.
“Please.”
“I swear.”
“Sam?”
He lifted me and pulled out fast, making me gasp with the loss of fullness, the quickness and ferocity of the movement.
“Get the fuck home,” he ordered, but didn’t move.
The effort it was taking for him to remain in the guise of the man he was supposed to be and not simply be Sam—my Sam—showed all over his face.
He wanted to hold me, to wrap his arms around me and crush me tight and not let go.
The way he leaned, like he wanted to kiss me, but did not complete the motion, made me sad for him.
This was the problem with breaking the rules, having contact with people you loved while you were undercover—they stripped away the facade.
His eyes—the smoky blue I loved—flicked to mine, held, and then he was gone, leaving me alone and dripping with his spend, half naked and shaking.
I needed to leave, but I had to pull myself together first. When I could finally stand, I put on my briefs and jeans, and then I retrieved one of my boots from under a table I had not noticed before.
As I made my way toward the door, Cristo suddenly appeared in it.
His eyes were hard.
I was not in the mood. Sam never left me after sex. He held me so tight and fell asleep beside me. To be abandoned was brand-new, and I felt raw.
“So, you’re not the man I thought you were. You tell me you don’t fuck around on your man, and yet here you are, and you reek of sweat and sex, and we both know you fucked some stranger in here.”
“And? So?”
“So, if you were gonna fuck someone, it should’ve been me,” he yelled, grabbing hold of my sweater, yanking me forward, his breath hot on my face.
I tore free of his grip, shoving him off me, and bolted by him and down the hall. It was good that he had no idea I had been with Sam, but it really did make me look like a whore.
The thought of what was true and what looked real haunted me all the way home.