32. Stephanie
THIRTY-TWO
STEPHANIE
All hypotheses should be tested. It’s basically a crime otherwise.
It’s been an hour, and he’s still outside splitting wood like it could solve his problems. By the look on his face, it’s not helping.
My blood is still heated from his words, from the fantasies he described meant to make me run screaming.
But he miscalculated because I want all those things and so much more.
I refuse to be ashamed of the desires stirring in my mind.
I spent too long feeling that way in the aftermath of my attack.
Dirty, angry, broken. I worked damn hard to leave all that behind, but I’ve been clueless how to go about asking for the things I need.
But now he’s here handing it to me on a platter, and most importantly, I trust him. I trust him to stop with one word. I trust him not to judge how my body reacts to thoughts of rough handling, and I trust him not to hurt me. But getting him to believe in himself is the mountain to climb.
I float around the lodge looking for something to distract myself.
I contemplate marching outside and demanding he get his ass back inside to give us both what we need.
But he’s working through his feelings, and that can’t be rushed, no matter how hard I urge him to believe me when I say “yes, please” to all the things he’s described.
I drift into the one room infused with warmth and personality.
It’s an odd find in the magazine-worthy place.
Books line the shelves, everything from the classics to recent releases, some indie books, other blockbusters.
Dragons to vampires, cute to dark. There’s something for every appetite and mood just waiting to be devoured.
A long, plush, pink velvet sofa invites you to curl up and get lost in a fantasy world.
I think this might be my favorite room, not just in the lodge, but ever.
I blink and find myself on the padded stool with the piano lid open, my fingers resting on the keys of the instrument I haven’t played since college.
I wait for the panic that accompanies something I once found pleasure in.
It doesn’t come. I suck in a breath, close my eyes, and play without thought.
My heart thumps steady and sure to the notes of a pop song I know by heart.
I sway my head and sing the words. Like the song declares, something’s got to give.
This is my wood chopping. The clarity of thought I always found appears between the first verse and chorus as I claim a part of myself I thought long lost. One song blurs into another, and I can feel the press of lips against my own, the hardening length grinding against my core, the not giving a shit that it was the middle of the day in a busy parking lot.
All I could see was him, all I could feel was the way his body heat felt against me, the way our tongues glided together.
My ears hummed with my rapid pulse and my skin flushed with anticipation.
It’s my first kiss since my attack, and my only one not shared with someone who went on to hurt me, and now it’s ruined me and made a mess of my future.
Measuring up to that is going to be impossible.
Maybe it’s because it was our first kiss, and it would have felt the same with anyone else.
I should test my theory by kissing someone else.
My mind rebels at that idea. By kissing him again?
Yes, that’s what needs to happen. Then I can adjust the expectations in my mind. It won’t be something to live up to.
I come to the end of the song, unsure how long I’ve been here, but resolute in what needs to happen next. I snap my eyes open, spin on the seat, and come face to face with the man in question. He leans against the door frame with his arms folded as if he’s been there a long time.
“You played,” he murmurs. He’s not sweaty. In fact, he’s changed, which means he probably showered before coming in here.
I ignore the obvious statement. He heard me, so it’s not up for question. I stand and stalk toward him, my mind clearer than it’s been in years.
He quirks a brow as I stop in front of him, rather than going around and escaping like he expects.
Silly man. He needs to let go of expectations when it comes to me.
I wrap my hands around his neck and suck in a lungful of his spicy fresh scent.
“What are you doing?” he growls.
“Testing a theory.” I press my lips against his. If he doesn’t reciprocate, it will diminish the feeling that nothing will beat him. I’m torn between wanting that and the alternative.
One of his hands winds in my hair and tugs, while the other snakes around my back. He takes a few steps, and my back hits a wall. Then he devours every moan and every gasp, growling as I arch my spine to push against him.
His fingers dig into my hip. Heat unfurls low as competing fantasies curl around us. I want to lose control while he takes it, but most of all, I want him to be right there with me. Desperate, trembling, addicted. I can’t be the only one lost.
His hand slams into the wall beside my head as he tears his mouth from mine. “What theory?” he snaps.
What? Oh, fuck. The theory.
“I thought maybe the way that kiss made me feel was because it was the first one I'd given willingly.”
He sucks in a breath as I tell him without being explicit about my lack of experience. What he doesn’t realize is that night was my only experience, and for the first time, I want to replace those memories with new ones.
“And?”
“I was wrong.”
“Is that good?”
“Depends on your viewpoint. I thought it was a fluke, a first-time adrenaline rush.”
He shakes his head. “But it’s not.”
“No.”
“You’re killing me. I’ve told you I’m not good for you. I’m not good for anyone.”
“I disagree.”
“You are just needy, frustrated, and looking for connection, and I’m just the nearest person.”
I frown. “You don’t honestly believe that.”
He shrugs. “Take the edge off and let me know if you still feel the same way.”
He’s pushing me away and trying to piss me off to put a dampener on my desire. Idiot. I’m not stupid, and it’s his error if he tries to treat me as such.
“Then take me back to town, and I’ll take that dude up on his offer.”
He pins me in place with his eyes, unblinking as he wrestles with the mess he just backed himself into. It’s not my fault he keeps underestimating me.
“Fine, get in the truck. Let’s go.”
Great. We’re going to play a proverbial game of chicken. I grew up with an older brother—I know how to win this blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back. Hopefully both.
I shove his chest. “Give me ten.”
He steps back, releasing me to walk away. I grab the box of nail polish, makeup, and bag of new clothing before disappearing into my bedroom.
I emerge seven minutes later, hair tamed into a braid, dressed in a pale blue shirt dress with a pair of tall suede boots. My nails are painted siren red, matching my lipstick. A war color.
I find him sitting on the sofa, tapping away on his laptop. “Ready,” I call out, not bothering to face him.
He’s up and in front of me a hair’s breadth later, blocking the front door. I tilt my head as he skims me from head to toe. “Chop, chop, Jeeves. I need to find someone to take the edge off, remember?”
“I’m going to hell,” he mutters. He wraps his arms around my waist and picks me up. Our lips crash together, and this time, there’s no restraint, no hesitation as he gives into this need. If he’s going to hell, then I’m going with him.
“I don’t do soft, sweetheart,” he growls. He drops my ass on the dining table and drags me close, parting my thighs to press himself against my drenched and heated core. I hiss at the contact, but it’s not enough.
“I don’t want soft.”
He grips the top of the dress and tears it, sending the buttons flying across the room. His hungry eyes skate over my breasts encased in cream silk. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
“You were pretty clear earlier. I know exactly what I’m asking for.”
“You think—”
My hand fists his hair, and I hold him hostage with my gaze. “I want to claw your back, because you are walking me on the knife edge of pleasure and pain. I want your teeth on my neck. I want it dirty, rough. I want to be consumed so my only thoughts are more, harder, faster.”
My free hand skates up the back of his T-shirt, my nails doing what I promised.
He hisses and one hand cradles my head before he pushes backward. My spine slams against the unforgiving wood, but he cushions my head. It just confirms what I already know—he can be rough and still take care of me.
“You are so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you, but I can’t tear my eyes away,” he groans, skimming the cup of my bra.
“I want you to steal my breath and make me scream your name,” I tell him, the words mirroring what he thought was a threat.
“The fantasies in your head are rarely the reality.”
I tilt my head and unclip the front fastening on the bra. “There’s only one way to find out.”
He swallows as I bare myself to his gaze. He tenses, and my legs wrap around his waist, keeping him close.
“James, look at me.”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “I want you. All of you. The real you. Every filthy desire. I want to come apart in your arms until I can’t think straight. I want you to push me until I’m certain I can’t take any more. Then I want you to prove me wrong. I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
My hands drift lower, between the valley of my breasts, over my stomach, and finally skimming the saturated silk between my legs.
“If you won’t touch me or give me what I need…
” I uncurl my legs, put one heeled foot against his chest, and shove him into the chair behind him. My lips curl. “Then watch.”