Chapter 15 #3
Urgency and awareness imprisoned him and warred so that his fingers shook as he moved them lower to slip under her panties and touch the most sensitive part of her between her thighs. Her shallow quick breaths incited his own heavy breathing, the sound loud in his ears.
Once the tip of his fingers touched the wet round nub of her clit, she bucked and screamed and he bit down on her lower lip and bit down on the leap of his cock and the loud roaring urging him on to more.
If his eyes had been open. his sight would have been blurred.
His closed eyes saw red and a dizzying blizzard of black spots behind his eyelids as he squeezed them closed tight to hang onto the moment of euphoria, knowing he would go higher, bring her higher, yet not knowing how it would be possible.
“Inside . . .” her ragged voice pleaded. But there was no need to beg. He wanted inside her. She was swollen and juicy. He lifted himself, and her hand darted, grabbing hold of his cock before he had a chance to blink. He almost cried out at the blinding heat of her fingers, felt himself strain.
There was no way Trent would lose control, not now. He lowered a shaky hand and pried hers from him, but not without brushing his tip across her pulsing clit. She cried out again, almost in a sob, and pushed her hips up wildly against his cock.
He wanted to soothe her, needed to give her what she wanted, wanted it more than she did, maybe.
He slipped his tip to her slick opening and pushed.
Once he felt the impossibly tight heat, wet and sucking him inside, he drove his cock home, all the way into her.
The exquisite pleasure made him shake as he pulled back and thrust again.
She arched up and met him each time, breathing hard, pushing hard, moaning loud.
Until his shaking became violent, propelling him forward, pumping and wild as she screamed out, squirming and clenching her legs, making him call out, making him pump again until he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, as if a seizure of sensation stole everything but the feel of his cock writhing inside her, spilling everything he had into her dark, lush recesses.
“I knew you wanted to come home with me, for this.” Trent splayed his hand over her mound in an intimate obscene gesture that made her twist with a pulse of pleasure, her body betraying her mind.
They lay in bed, still sweaty, the earthy scent of their sex heavy, permeating the air even in his enormous bedroom.
She knew he was right. They both knew she hadn’t had to go back to his place with him. He could have taken the file back himself and locked it up without her. But she’d wanted to go—needed to go—needed him. He was like her own special addictive drug. Although she couldn’t let him understand that.
“Are we going to fall into lovemaking every time—”
“This isn’t lovemaking. It’s sex,” he said. “We’re attracted to each other. It isn’t a crime.”
She filled in the unspoken, It’s the only thing we’re doing together that isn’t a crime.
She let the sting of his words, This isn’t lovemaking, it’s sex, pass over her. She couldn’t think about it now. She waved a hand. “Regardless. Are we going to fall into bed every time something happens? Every time we have a tense moment? Is this our solution to everything?”
He stared at her eyes and then moved his stare to her mouth as if he was examining a specimen. Maybe that’s what she was to him.
No, that’s what he was to her. A fine specimen. That’s all he could be. She was taking advantage of her subject and she felt the shame bone deep. The heat of it glowed and spread from inside until she felt like she was burning up.
She turned over onto her stomach, away from his stare. He wouldn’t answer her but it didn’t matter. She knew the answer. He rolled on top of her then, his weight pressing her into the mattress. Her breaths were shallow but adequate.
“It makes perfect sense to me.” He settled against her, his sweaty skin sticking to hers, keeping her heat closed in. She felt herself flush red.
He spoke again. “Don’t you think this is a good solution to the tension?”
“If this was the solution to everything then we—you—wouldn’t need my drug. If sex was all you needed to relieve the tension in your muscles, better yet, to heal them, then we could be spoiling the data, skewing the outcome.”
A rumble of amusement shuddered through him and she felt his cock stiffen against her rear, felt every vibration against her and through her in a sensual heady spread like a slow-motion orgasm.
He moved a hand under her, slipping it between her legs to prove his point, to make further discussion superfluous.
To solve the problem, yet again, with more sex.
He curled around her and bent his head so his mouth touched her ear and whispered, “I own you.”
The shiver raised an army of goose bumps at attention to his every command and proving his statement. She could think of nothing to say, nothing she could do to disprove him. He was a far cry from the kind, thoughtful, affectionate and caring man he’d shown her before now.
“Is this the real you?”
“It’s all the real me. Don’t worry, Charlie—”
“Don’t tell me what to do. You don’t own me.” She bucked under him, raising her knees but the weight of him was immovable. Her heart raced with her sudden need not to be trapped. Not to be so vulnerable to this man. Her specimen.
He moved.
She escaped from his weight and out from under him and rolled to the edge of the bed, then faced him. “I own you.”
They looked at each other. Why did she say it? Did she need to get back at him? Did she need to own him? Did she need not to be owned by him? He answered her.
“No one owns anyone, Charlie. It was a figure of speech. Something you say to a woman when you have her trapped—”
Her hand flew up and slapped his face before she even felt the outrage.
“Don’t you dare compare me to other women like—”
He caught her hand and held her wrist. Tight. It hurt but she wasn’t going to tell him that. He looked angry, surprised, and hurt.
“Did you think I was a virgin? You want me to pretend—”
“No. I don’t know what I mean. I don’t care. I told you this was a bad idea.” She waved her hand in his direction and pushed herself up and sat on the edge of the bed, meant to get up and put on her clothes and leave. And never come back.
Except she had to come back. A really bad idea. And she would end up in his bed again. She knew it.
Because she couldn’t bear the thought of not ever sharing his bed again. He did own her, but she would never admit it to him.
“You’re leaving,” he said.
“I can’t stay.”
“I know.” He paused a beat. She turned around to look at him. Couldn’t help herself.
He said, “I don’t think you should leave . . . like this.” He looked serious. She laughed.
“You mean after fighting? After having a tiff? We’re not one of those couples who has to make up and kiss each other every night before going to sleep.
That’s not us. We can’t have a tiff because we’re not a couple.
Not really. It’s all pretend, remember?” This isn’t lovemaking, it’s sex.
She didn’t know at what point during her speech the tears began, but she became aware when his hand reached up and he lightly wiped at the stream along her cheekbone.
That was all he did. He didn’t speak. He didn’t pull her in for a hug. He was probably still too angry with her for that. She didn’t blame him. Besides, what she said was true. Brutal enough to hurt, but true.
“Are you okay—going to be okay with this?”
She shook her head. Couldn’t speak without her voice cracking, without risking breaking down into sobs.
“We should stop then,” he said. His voice sounded gruff—like he meant it. He watched her. She stared at his eyes, clear and sad, and wondered if he could stop, or if he would. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
She shook her head.
He sat up and reached out and pulled her back toward him and wrapped her in his arms. She sobbed.