Chapter 9 #2
Stomping, I reach him, open my mouth, and stare. Stare. Stare at him. On my bed. Smiling at me. Smirking at me. Eyes passionate with very clear and obvious undertones. I rake in a breath, collect myself, grab the collar of his shirt, and seethe, inches away from his…mouth.
His legs uncross. His fingers latch into the hem of my FrostPlays limited edition t-shirt. He tugs, and I wind up between his thighs, knees to my mattress.
“Three,” he murmurs.
I blink. “What?”
“Two,” he whispers, and his arm lifts in the corner of my eye.
My lips part.
“One.” His whole palm fits to the back of my head, facilitating closing the distance between us.
I gasp, expecting the kiss of my life, but our foreheads only clunk together.
Disappointment shreds into my body. It…makes me mad. Is he kidding me? That would have been… It could have been… This was such a…
“Ooh.” He wets his lips, and I watch, front-row seat, as his tongue moves. “What are those big feelings racing through your eyes, mistress?” His fingers stroke my hair. “Tell me everyth—”
I cover his stupid mouth with my stupid mouth.
His teasing in my hair solidifies. His fingers scrape my scalp as I take what I want, soak in his warmth, soak in his…
A soft sound leaves me, and that makes me remember that I’m being an idiot, and emotionally unavailable people shouldn’t do things like this. Finding every last ounce of my strength, I pull back.
But he follows me.
In the second of air I impose between us, he cusses, then he reclaims, then his tongue—
A muffled whine of desperation pours forth from my chest. I loosen my grasp on his shirt as the heady chemicals flood my senses. My palms flatten against him, against his broad shoulders, and I teeter forward, closer, closer.
He lies back, and I find myself indulging in the comforting sensation of his hard body beneath me, his firm planes against my curves. His hands find my curves, and he’s violent about it—fingers burying in my sides, digging, dredging.
I pull his hair.
He groans, pleads, shudders.
My breaths shorten, and I need air, so I break the connection.
He whimpers.
I travel, exploring the taste of his jaw, his neck.
Head thrust back to give me all the space I want, he swallows; I kiss his Adam’s apple, listen to him swear. And swear. And swear.
“No.” He can barely breathe. “Mistress…Morana…”
He smells so good. Like trees and night. And his skin…his mouth…his arms around me.
The mad desperation in the way he’s holding me screams I will not let you go. His fingers bruising my flesh whisper that he can’t.
He can’t.
I don’t want him able to.
I won’t survive if he is ever able to.
And…
My head begins to clear the moment he proves that his sad little gamer arms actually do possess some amount of strength.
My back hits my bed, and he prowls, above me, taking my prone form in.
He licks his bottom lip; it’s red, raw, swollen.
A cuss hisses beyond it. Then he tears off his long jacket, sends it to live in a heap on the floor behind him.
Reaching for the top button of his blue dress shirt, he tugs.
Three buttons come undone before his mouth is back on mine, sending praises and incoherent reverence down my throat.
With sharpness, I become alert. With panic, I plant my palms against his chest, push.
He doesn’t budge. He is immovable.
I turn my nails in, but that elicits the exact opposite of what I’m trying for here.
By a miracle of chance, he frees my lips and opens his mouth against my throat.
Pure pleasure hits my cells, but I can’t. I cannot let this go where this is going. Once he takes what he wants from me, all of this desire will end. He’ll have satiated the want. It’ll fizzle. And then… And then—
“Stop!” I cry, shaking.
Immediately, he…does.
Every muscle in him stops. I hear his swallow loud in my skull as he closes his mouth, pulls back, looks at me.
Terrified concern riots in his beautiful blue eyes.
He searches my face. Careful and hesitant, he cups my cheek.
Worry saturates him as he checks my eyes, my mouth, the place he was just torturing with his teeth.
Soft as love, he whispers, “Did I hurt you, dearest?”
Dearest.
When I blink, tears cascade down my cheeks.
Frantic horror pours over him. “Morana—”
“You said—” I croak, past a pitiful sniffle, “—you brought games?”
His brow knits. He oh-so-tenderly runs his knuckle beneath my eye, catching my tears. “Yes?”
“Can we…do those?” I whisper.
He searches my eyes again, looks at my body, then at his bare chest, right down to his undone belt buckle.
A breath leaves him as he straightens himself, away from me.
Jaw hardening, he closes his eyes. Voice rough, he says, “Yes. Of course. I…” He swipes his hand over his face, cuts his fingers back into his hair.
“Of course. I’m sorry.” He presses his palm into the socket of his eye.
“This…wasn’t very careful of me. I am…deeply sorry. ”
I can tell that he is.
But it isn’t even his fault.
He was careful.
I kissed him.