34. Rico
Rico
Her orgasm rips through her like a live wire, and fuck if I don’t feel every pulse, every desperate squeeze, trying to milk me dry.
Heat licks up my spine, curling low, threatening to drag me under with her.
I’m two seconds from coming, which is exactly why I pull out and flip her over—because if I finish looking into those wrecked, glassy eyes, I’ll lose more than just control.
She hits the mattress with a gasp, and I press her face down on the mattress, the duvet muffling her moans, burying myself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Her moan fractures something in my chest, but I shove it down and focus on the rhythm—hard, fast, punishing.
Sweat slicks between us as my shirt rides up, the muscles of my stomach grinding against her damp skin.
I can’t face her. Not when she’s soft and undone, looking at me like I’m more than a mistake she regrets.
Not when I almost kissed her as she came—like a fucking idiot desperate to taste the sound of his name on her lips.
No. This isn’t about the connection. This is about fucking her until she’s nothing but another scratch I’ve itched, and preferably, a woman carrying my child after this.
At least, that was the plan.
But when she tightens around me—again—another orgasm gliding through her, I nearly lose my footing. Her body milks me like she was made to ruin me, and fuck me if I don't hold back begging her to do just that.
I haul her up, her back flush to my chest, and drive into her harder, faster, each thrust raw and messy. No rhythm, no thought—just pure need. Her head drops back against my shoulder, her body pliant, wrecked, her skin dewed with sweat and glowing.
And when I sink my teeth into her shoulder—hard enough to leave a mark, soft enough not to break her—she moans. Loud. Shameless. Like she wants the entire world to know who’s fucking her like this.
That sound? That’s what sends me over the edge.
I thrust once, twice, then I’m gone, coming so hard it feels like my body’s being torn inside out.
My hand finds her throat—just holding. Because I need something to keep me grounded while everything else explodes.
My other arm locks tight around her waist, anchoring her to me as my hips stutter, releasing every drop.
And when it’s over, when I should collapse, rolling off, pretending this never happened?
I’m still fucking hard.
My cock twitches inside her, aching for more, and I breathe through my teeth, cursing her under my breath.
What the fuck is this?
Normally, I’m done after I come. But with her, it’s like my body never got the memo.
Instead, I’m still buried deep, already thinking about flipping her back over and starting all over again.
Not helpful. Not when the whole point was to fuck her out of my system—not get addicted.
So why am I still holding her? Worse—why the fuck do words come out of my mouth next?
“You want my secret?” I mutter against her ear, my voice rough, ragged, as my hips slow but don’t stop because her wet, silky heat is heaven.
Her head tilts, strands of hair sticking to her damp cheek. “Your what?”
I tighten my grip on her throat—just to make her feel the pulse pounding beneath my thumb. The only proof I’m still alive because I wouldn’t be surprised if I keeled over from a heart attack just now.
“My secret,” I repeat, lowering my mouth to the shell of her ear. “I fucking hate how good this feels.”
And that’s the truth. Because if this keeps up, she’ll steal more than my breath and sanity. She’ll steal the parts of me I buried years ago—the ones that remember how to feel anything but numb.
And I can’t let that happen.
Not for her. Not for anyone.
"My secret," I mutter, dragging my teeth along the slope of her neck, where her pulse hammers like a drum. Soft, velvety skin—silk stretched over sin. Everything about this woman feels designed to fuck with my self-control.
Just like on the dining room table, when I told her she was my first kiss. A confession I’d buried so deep, not even my brothers could’ve excavated it. Yet I handed it to her like an idiot, gifting someone the weapon to slit his throat.
Her body stiffens. She turns her head, lips close enough that I can feel her breath feathering across my mouth, warm and sweet. Like she’s daring me to close the gap. I don’t. Because I know what I have to do. Remind her.
But the fact that I want to taste that mouth again?
That’s the real problem. Must be the endorphins.
Or dopamine. Whatever chemical cocktail an orgasm spikes in your bloodstream.
I’ll research it later and figure out how to counteract the shit.
Because this gnawing urge to keep her under me, around me, mine—that’s dangerous.
Then she moves, hips tilting in slow circles, and I feel it: the slick heat welcoming me back inside, her moans vibrating against my jaw like she knows exactly what she's doing. My cock throbs, thickening further with every roll of her hips, and my already thin thread snaps.
I can't tell her a secret. I can't fuck her again either, even though I promised I'd ruin her all night. If I do, I'll fall asleep here, wrapped around her, and something else will slip. Something real. Something I can't afford to give.
So, I do what I’m best at when things are out of my control and I get pissy like a toddler throwing a tantrum—self-sabotage.
"My therapist never complained when I took her from behind."
The second the words leave my mouth, her entire body locks up like I just dumped a bucket of ice water on her.
I could almost laugh at how predictably effective it is.
Pissing her off is the only way to break the spell.
And technically, it’s not a lie. My escort wasn’t paid to complain.
But, comparing her and Allie is not a fair comparison.
None of which Allie gets from me was ever, and I mean ever, offered to an escort.
Right down to the arm I have banded around her waist or her completely naked body stiff against mine.
Or kissing her. Or fucking saying a word to the woman.
But the look she gives me. Those doe eyes, wide and wounded, like I just kicked a puppy and spat on its grave.
“You asshole. How dare you,” she hisses, scrambling off the bed. She snatches her clothes off the floor, the white silk tangling in her fingers as she jabs an accusatory finger at me. “Get the hell out of my room, Rico.”
Her voice shakes, but not with anger. Hurt bleeds through every syllable, and for some godforsaken reason, it makes my chest tighten. Not a fan of that new sensation.
“If you ever—and I mean ever—mention your escorts while we’re in bed, or… or anywhere, really, I swear to God—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head like words aren’t enough to capture her fury. “Just get out.”
“Allie…” I start, throat dry, brain scrambling for something to defuse the bomb I just dropped other than saying “sorry,” because I don’t do that.
What the hell am I supposed to say? Sorry for comparing you to a woman I paid to leave after fifteen minutes?
No, because that would mean admitting she means more than that.
And she doesn’t need to know that. She can’t.
I only wanted to sever the connection, not slice her open and watch her bleed.
“Go back to your room. To your floor.” The emphasis is a slap to the face.
I don’t argue. I don’t apologize. I just grab my sweats, yank them up, and stalk out of her room without another glance. Victory, right? I don’t have to spoon her or accidentally kiss her again. Mission accomplished.
So why the fuck does my chest still feel like someone shoved a fist through my ribcage and started squeezing?
By the time I hit the first floor, my head’s pounding. I bypass my room entirely, heading straight for my office and powering up my computer. If I’m dying, I might as well know what the cause of death is.
Chest tightness. Shortness of breath. Radiating discomfort. Google throws “heart attack” at me like it’s trying to win a prize for the most dramatic diagnosis, but it might be accurate.
But there’s a little voice in my head whispering something worse. Guilt you dumbass.
Bullshit. I don’t feel guilt. I don’t feel anything. This has to be a cardiac issue. Maybe I should schedule an appointment.
Doubt there’s a cure for being an asshole husband, though. Which, judging by the shattered look on Allie’s face, I’ve just confirmed I am.