Chapter 39
Ayla
“Wait,” he says before I can press my mouth to his again.
He clears his throat as if it pains him to press the brakes.
“Maybe we should talk first.”
“Talk? Like have the I’ve had blank amount of partners conversation?”
He shakes his head. “Maybe we should talk about expectations.”
“I expect to come,” I tell him.
He chuckles but doesn’t draw closer to me.
“I want to be brutally honest with you.”
I stiffen before dropping my arms at my sides.
This is the part where he tells me that he’s okay with sex, but he isn’t the type of man to get involved with anything serious.
“Honesty,” I say, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice. “That’s like a bucket of fucking cold water poured over my head.”
“I’m fucked in the head,” he says as I sit on the end of the bed.
“Aren’t we all?” I mutter.
“I enjoyed some of what I did to you back in Mexico.”
I meet his eyes. “I came, too.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not talking about pleasure that was forced from my body.”
I swallow, wondering how and when he had the ability to get inside my thoughts.
“I’ve fought myself about that very same thing,” I confess. “I’m not saying I wanted it, but I’m glad it was you. Does that even make sense?”
He swallows as he inches closer. “I don’t understand any of it.”
“I don’t either.”
“I can’t let go of this feeling that we’re—”
“Meant for each other,” I finish for him.
His nod, the acceptance of what it means, makes a rush of cold chills cover every inch of my body.
“I’m not a dreamer. I’ve never wasted time on thinking about my future,” he says. “If anyone asked me two months ago how I saw my story ending, I would’ve told them alone and probably too soon.”
I swallow, knowing what he means. I always thought of my life being different, but I had no plans to do anything to change the trajectory of it.
“How fucked up is it that I believe to my core that what happened to us was meant to happen to us?”
I stand as he inches closer. “I’d say then that maybe it was all worth it.”
“That’s fucking horrible,” he says.
“I know.”
We don’t say another word. He bends his head, his mouth finding mine, his tongue not wasting another second before swiping over mine.
I gasp when he grips a handful of my hair, jerking my head back.
The sizzle of electricity I’ve felt so many times with him near comes back full force.
This situation between us isn’t perfect, fated or not.
I know we’re going to argue. There will be times I’ll throw what we’ve done, how we’ve hurt each other, in his face.
I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll blame him as much as I blame myself.
I know he’ll probably do the same, but if we come back together like this, then I think we’ll be okay.
And if we sizzle out, if the fire that burns between us is doused and nothing is left behind but smoke fading in the air, then I think I can be okay with that as well.
All I know, is right now, in this moment, Nash is who I need. He’s who I want. He’s who I choose.
For the longest time, I focused on what I didn’t have. I fixated on what I lost, but I realize now that I was barely living. I was just going through the motions until I was forced to take a look at my life and what I valued.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he growls against my mouth. “Get naked, because if I try to undress you, I’ll rip this shit from your body.”
He takes a step back. As much as I want to tell him that’s exactly what I want, I’m a reasonable person. I only have two sets of clothes after all.
I watch, my hands working to pull my shirt over my head, as he works open the zipper of his jeans.
My body is thrumming with need, an ache so deep inside of me that I know having him there is the only thing that will sate it, if only for a little while.
I don’t concern myself with the psychology of why we’re like this with each other. I don’t care if it’s because of the pain we’ve endured together and because of the other. I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense or if others would call it toxic.
I need him. He needs me.
It’s as simple as it has to be.
Neither of us answer to anyone but ourselves, and that’s what makes this perfect.
We have a million reasons to walk away from each other. It takes bravery to stay.
“Fuck,” he snaps, his hands working faster to pull off his shirt as he kicks his boots off one by one.
His erection juts toward me, as I shove the sweats down my hips.
“Taking too long,” he grunts as he steps forward and pushes me to my back on the bed, my shoes still on, and the sweats a tangle around my calves.
“Oh shit,” I hiss, as he lifts my legs, using the fabric between them to press my legs higher.
The first sweep of his tongue feels like I’ve been struck by lightning. As much as I want the next swipe, I don’t get it.
“Later,” he snaps, his lips glistening from my arousal.
It was a test. If he found me not ready, I have no doubt he’d spend some time getting me that way, but I’ve been slick, desperately needy for him, since we left Lindell.
He doesn’t ask permission, doesn’t check with me one last time, before he presses inside of me.
My mouth hangs open on a breathless scream at the intrusion.
It’s brutal and a little painful.
It’s fucking perfect.
He draws his hips back, his eyes locked on mine, his jaw tight, the muscles flexing as he clenches harder.
There’s no apology in his eyes. There’s no guilt.
This doesn’t resemble what happened before at all.
“Nash,” I hiss when he slams forward again, his grip on my sweats the only thing locking me in place.
“Don’t you dare ask me to stop,” he growls, his hips picking up the tempo.
“Never,” I say. “Harder.”
A menacing grin spreads across his face as he pulls back and slams forward again.
“I’m going to—what the fuck?” I hiss, when he pulls free of me, making me realize I was rocking against him because it leaves my hips fucking nothing but air.
“We have forever, baby,” he says, his big hands pulling at the shoe on my right foot.
He rips it free, tugging at the sweats until they fall from that leg.
I squeal when he flips me over, wondering how many bruises will be left behind when he grips my body, forcing my hips into the air.
“Nash,” I hiss again when he tugs my hair, forcing me to sit up on my knees, the back of my head planting against his shoulder.
“Keep your mouth shut unless you’re going to beg me for more,” he growls in my ear, his magical fucking cock finding that spot inside of me that aches for him and only him.
I whimper and his chest rumbles with something akin to pride at my desperation.
“Can’t stop it,” I warn, unsure of how my orgasm will make him respond.
“Don’t want you to. Fucking give it to me, Ayla. Let me know you’re mine.”
I don’t hesitate. I don’t try to stop it. I don’t feel an ounce of guilt or shame for the way my body explodes.
With the orgasm, I release all the negative shit Pirro and Cortez made me feel. With each pulse of my core, the humiliation, the degradation, the utter helplessness falls away.
“Goddamn, baby. That’s it. Look at me, Ayla.”
I lock eyes with him over my shoulder, my eyes shining with tears of relief.
“Not pulling out,” he warns.
“Please don’t,” I tell him.
“Fuck,” he hisses one more time before I feel the pulse of his cock.
His breaths are ragged, puffing from his lips as his hips continue to work.
It’s utter fucking perfection, and I don’t care how broken we are. We can be broken together, and that’s the beauty of us. We won’t ever need to look Instagram flawless. I won’t ever have to worry about the opinions of others. I can be raw and open, and he’s going to appreciate me more for it.
“Baby,” he whispers as he pulls free, turning me over to face him in the next breath.
His lips on mine feel like a promise. It’s a vow we’re both too vulnerable right now to speak out loud.
The kiss is slow, the nip of his teeth on my lower lip when he pulls away a quick reminder that he’s not going soft on me, physically or emotionally.
His wet cock runs along my slit as he lifts me, my legs immediately wrapping around his waist.
“You better not,” I warn when he walks with me in his arms to the bathroom. “I don’t have much to wear.”
He places me on the counter before pulling my shoe and sweats from my leg.
“Come on,” he says, holding out his hand to me so I can jump off the counter and join him.
We don’t talk. Our confessions are over. My mind isn’t filled with questions. I don’t spend the time in the shower, wondering what happens next. I don’t grow flustered, wondering about what his kisses mean.
All I concern myself with is the right now, with the way his hands skate down my back, not pausing to explore the scars left behind from the last four months.
I focus on his touch, his kiss, the way his hips roll against me when I curl my fingernails into his flesh. I listen to his moans when I bite at his skin, rather than wondering how he manages to quiet the voice in my head that I’ve answered to my entire life.
There’s nothing perfect about us, other than the fact that we’re perfect for each other, scars, past traumas, and no plans for the future included.