Chapter 9 #2
My torso was a map of violence. There was a massive, purpling bruise blooming on my ribs from the hit. Old scars crisscrossed my stomach. And the tattoos—the ink that covered my arms and chest—seemed stark against the pale skin.
"Does it hurt?" she asked, reaching out to hover her hand over the bruise on my ribs.
"Only when I breathe," I joked weakly.
She didn't laugh. She touched the bruise, her fingers feather-light.
"You’re beautiful," she whispered. "In a terrifying way."
"I’m a mess," I corrected.
"No," she said, meeting my eyes. "You’re a masterpiece."
The air shifted. The tenderness evaporated, replaced by a sudden, scorching heat.
I reached out with my left hand and grabbed her hip, pulling her forward until her thighs hit the edge of the mattress.
"Take it off," I ordered, nodding at the jersey.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, she reached down, grabbed the hem of the jersey, and pulled it over her head.
She wasn't wearing a bra.
Just the black tank top. It was thin, tight, and showed everything. Her nipples were hard, pressing against the fabric.
I groaned.
"Come here," I said.
She stepped closer. I wrapped my good arm around her waist and buried my face in her stomach. The cotton was soft. Her skin was warm. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with her scent.
"Angela," I mumbled against her shirt. "I’m going to lose my mind."
"Then lose it," she whispered, her hands coming up to thread through my hair. She scratched my scalp lightly, sending shivers down my spine. "I’ve got you."
I pulled back to look at her.
"I can't... I can't be gentle tonight," I warned. "I hurt. I’m tired. I’m buzzing."
"I don't want gentle," she said. "I want you."
She climbed onto the bed. She crawled over the duvet until she was kneeling beside me.
She reached for the waistband of my pants.
"Can I?" she asked.
"Yes," I choked out.
She unbuckled my belt. She unzipped the fly. She pushed the pants down, along with my boxer briefs.
I kicked them off.
I was naked. Hard. Aching.
She sat back on her heels and looked at me. Her gaze was reverent. Hungry.
"You’re huge," she breathed.
"I’m waiting for you," I said.
She reached behind her back and unclasped the tank top. She pulled it off.
She was beautiful. Her breasts were perfect, pale and round, with rosy nipples that were tight with arousal. Her stomach was flat, toned from years of ballet.
She wasn't wearing jeans anymore. She had taken them off in the bathroom before coming in, leaving her in just a pair of tiny black lace panties.
"Come here," I said, pulling her down onto the bed.
She straddled me. Her knees bracketed my hips. The heat of her core pressed against my erection through the thin lace of her panties.
"Kiss me," she demanded.
I kissed her.
It was fierce. Desperate. We rolled on the bed, a tangle of limbs and skin. I winced as my ribs hit the mattress, but the pain was distant, drowned out by the overwhelming sensation of her body against mine.
I kissed her neck, her throat, the slope of her breast. I took one nipple into my mouth, sucking hard. She cried out, arching her back, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
"Elijah," she gasped. "Please. Now."
"Not yet," I growled.
I moved my hand—my left hand—down her stomach. I slipped it inside her panties. She was drenched. Ready.
I found her clit and circled it. She bucked against my hand.
"You’re so responsive," I murmured against her skin. "Like a raw nerve."
"Because of you," she sobbed. "Only you."
I hooked my fingers into the lace of her panties and ripped. The fabric tore with a sharp sound.
She gasped. "Those were expensive!"
"I’ll buy you new ones," I said, tossing the ruined lace onto the floor. "I’ll buy you a thousand pairs."
She was naked now. Completely bare to me.
I positioned myself between her legs. I guided myself to her entrance.
I paused.
I looked into her eyes. They were wide, trusting, filled with a love she hadn't said out loud yet.
"Angela," I whispered. "If I go in... I’m not coming out. Not really. You understand? This isn't a hookup. This is a seal."
"I know," she whispered, reaching up to cup my face. "Seal it, Elijah. Make me yours."
I pushed forward.
She was tight. So tight. I groaned, gritting my teeth against the pleasure that bordered on pain. I sank into her slowly, inch by inch, letting her body adjust to me.
When I was fully sheathed, hilt deep, I stopped.
We both let out a breath.
It was the most profound feeling of my life. Being inside her. Being held by her.
"You okay?" I asked, brushing the hair from her forehead.
"I’ve never felt so full," she whispered, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. "It’s perfect."
I started to move.
Slowly at first. Long, deep strokes that touched her soul. Then faster. Harder. The rhythm took over. The primal need to claim, to mark, to possess.
She met me thrust for thrust. She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper. Her nails raked down my back, over the tattoos, over the scars.
"Elijah!" she screamed my name as she fell over the edge. I felt her clamp down around me, milking me.
It was too much.
I let go. I buried my face in her neck and poured myself into her. I gave her everything. The anger, the fear, the love.
We collapsed together, a tangled mess of sweat and heavy breathing.
I rolled to the side, pulling her with me so I wouldn't crush her. I tucked her head under my chin. I wrapped my good arm around her, holding her tight against my chest.
The silence returned to the penthouse. But it wasn't empty anymore.
"Don't leave," I whispered into the darkness.
"I’m not going anywhere," she murmured, already half asleep.
I closed my eyes. For the first time in ten years, the noise in my head was gone.
There was only Angela. And that was enough.