13. Chapter 13 #2
I can’t stop looking at her. I want to memorize the way her face changes—shocked at her own pleasure, then desperate, then near tears as she comes again, harder this time, my name a broken prayer on her lips.
She holds me in like she never wants to let go.
Her body tells me everything I need to know—more, harder, don’t stop—and I oblige her until I am close enough to lose myself. I want to make it last.
Her face flashes disappointment as I pull out suddenly.
I want to fuck her pussy from behind. I take her by the hips and flip her, quick but careful, keeping her in the feeling.
She gasps, then moans as I pull her ass against my hips, running my hands over her back, the curve of her waist, the trembling of her thighs.
She’s so wet I slide back in with almost no resistance, and she whimpers at the stretch.
I give her a moment, stroking her spine, then start to move—slow, deep, pushing her into the mattress with every thrust. She clutches the sheets, panting, and I fuck her slow enough to make her beg.
When she starts to push back against me, desperate for more, I give it to her.
The sound of our bodies is loud and obscene in the quiet room.
I can’t get enough of it. I want to mark her, ruin her for anyone else.
Her hair falls forward and I fist it gently, arching her head back so I can see the line of her neck, the flush blooming at her ears and cheeks.
I reach around and play with her clit again, and she loses her mind, hips bucking, curses tumbling out of her mouth.
I pin her with one hand, fucking her hard and deep, and she comes again, her whole body shaking.
I come with her, the orgasm tearing through me so hard my vision goes white at the edges.
I collapse over her, gasping for breath, and she shudders beneath me, her body still fluttering around my cock. I don’t want to let go. Not ever. I want to be the man who can control everything, even this.
She breathes, slow and uneven, her face buried in the pillow. I stroke her hips, her back, admiring the roundness of her ass. She’s so beautiful. I almost can’t stand it.
Slowly, I pull out. Her body softens and she rolls over, fixing me with a look that is equal parts dazed and suspicious.
I laugh, and the sound is hoarse. “Are you assessing the situation?” I ask.
She stretches, a lazy, feline motion that makes me want to start again immediately. “I’m taking inventory,” she says, voice rough. “I need to know if all my bones are still there.”
I kiss her shoulder, then her cheek, then her mouth. She tastes different now, salt and sweat and something newer, more reckless. “You broke a few,” I say.
She grins, and it’s slow and sly and so fucking pretty it almost hurts.
“You can fix them. I assume you have a guy for that.”
“A few,” I admit. “But none as good as me.” I settle beside her, letting my hand settle over her stomach, thumb tracing lazy circles as her breathing gets less wild.
She stares at the ceiling for a moment, and I wonder if she’s thinking about the rest of the night, about the family waiting in the morning. I wonder if she has any regrets.
My heart pounds, waiting for some sign she’s pulling away. Instead, she turns onto her side, curls against my chest, and lets me wrap my arms around her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
For a long minute, neither of us talks. Lucy’s breaths are slow and deep.
I can almost feel her mind working, the way her body tenses and relaxes with each new thought.
I’m not good at aftermaths. I am good at winning, at controlling, at orchestrating a room.
But I want this woman in my bed and my life, and I don’t know how to keep her. I don’t know how not to fuck it all up.
“You have a scar,” she says, tracing a finger over my chest.
“Several.” I glance down and find her eyes fixed on the thin white line, barely visible under the low light. “That one’s from a bottle of wine.”
Lucy’s lips twitch. “A wine fight?”
“An accident, technically. My father’s birthday. I was twelve. My sisters started it, but my mother blamed me for the mess.”
“The other one?”
“Knife. Not as interesting. Someone got too close.”
This is the part of the night I always hated.
The soft, uncertain aftermath. The place where bodies calm down and truth starts looking for a way into the room.
But Lucy doesn’t pull away. She stays curled against me, tracing lazy patterns over my chest like she has every right to learn me by touch, and God help me, I want to let her.
Outside the windows, the ocean is black and endless, the yacht cutting smoothly through the dark.
Somewhere beyond this cabin, my family is sleeping, waiting, listening with all the subtlety of people who will absolutely pretend not to know where Lucy spent the night.
Tomorrow, there will be breakfast. Questions. Nonna.
Lucy shifts against me, her voice drowsy but still edged with suspicion. “Are we actually going to the Bahamas?”
I look down at her, at the woman who climbed into my lap as a lie and is now tucked against my heart like a truth I have no idea how to survive.
“Only if you want to,” I say.
She is quiet for a moment. Then her fingers spread over my chest, warm and trusting.
“That’s a dangerous thing to ask me right now.”
I press my mouth to her hair and close my eyes, holding her closer than I should.
“Yes,” I murmur. “I’m beginning to understand that about you.”