Chapter Twenty
Brielle
There's something about the way Asher closes the bedroom door that says I'm not getting out of here tonight until he's destroyed me again.
He flicks the lock, leans his weight against the jamb, and watches me with that ruinous hunger that somehow manages to broadcast exactly what he wants to do to me.
Except…it never goes that way, not anymore.
Not since I made him promise. Not since he broke me open and decided he was afraid he'd put the pieces back together wrong.
Now, he just stands there with his arms crossed, his eyes boring into me, like if he stares hard enough, he might learn to trust himself enough to touch me and still be the man he promised to be.
He hasn't learned yet.
It's been three weeks since I forgave him. Three weeks of aching, of teasing, of his mouth on my skin, of his hands pinning me down, of his cock grinding against me until I'm shaking and gasping and clawing at him.
But it's never, ever more than that.
Every night, he kisses me until my lips are swollen, works me up until I'm a mess, then grits his teeth and backs off, self-loathing pouring off him in waves. He'll hold me, stroke my hair, tell me that I'm beautiful, that I'm perfect, that I'm the only thing he wants in this world.
And then he'll roll over and stare into the dark for hours. He doesn't really sleep. He doesn't move, either. He doesn't do anything except stare, trying to find the version of himself he thinks he has to become to earn me.
It's driving me out of my goddamn mind.
When I made him promise not to break me again, this isn't what I had in mind. It isn't what I want. It isn't what I need from him, either.
I need him to be both monster and man—the way he was on that plane on the way to Los Angeles.
The way he was in quiet moments when he let himself forget, for even a second, to hate himself and let me in.
The way he was when he allowed himself to ruin me with his hands and mouth and cock and then whispered sweetness in my ear afterward.
Even if he won't admit it, he needs it, too.
Tonight, I plan on getting what I want from him, even if I have to break every rule and wage war. Which is precisely why I'm naked right now. I don't need armor needed for this battle—only skin.
I crawl up onto the bed, prop myself up on my elbows, and watch him. He's changed into black sweatpants and nothing else, his erection tenting the fabric, his skin golden and gleaming, his tattoos and scars on display. He is so goddamn beautiful.
He looks like he's been through a war. Hell, maybe he has.
He never talks about where he goes every afternoon, but I know he's been going to therapy.
I see the hints of fresh pain every time he comes home with a new book or that distant look in his eyes that says he's been digging up the ugliest parts of himself and laying them bare again.
He stares at me from the doorway.
I stare back.
He doesn't move. Neither do I.
Eventually, he breaks. He always does. "Come here, princess," he rasps.
And I go to him, because I always do.
He hauls me up onto my tiptoes, his hands cupping my jaw with almost brutal care. He kisses me so hard I taste blood, but I don't care.
When I bite him, he groans and fists his hand in my hair, tipping my head back so he can drag his mouth along my throat. He scrapes and bites and sucks until I'm arching against him, dizzy with need.
"Asher," I moan.
He grinds his cock against my stomach, just the way he does every single night. I can feel how badly he wants it, how much it costs him to keep saying no. He's trembling, the way he used to shake when he was about to fuck me within an inch of my life.
I slide my hands down his chest, my palms flat against the hard muscle and the tattooed crown with its blood-red thorns. I kneel, running my tongue over the tiny silvery scars on his abdomen, and hear his breath catch.
Before I can tug his sweats down and take him into my mouth, he hauls me back up, his hands vises around my arms.
"Fuck, princess," he groans, pushing me back onto the bed so he can crawl over me. "I want you so bad."
"Then take me," I say, daring him, my legs spread wide so he can see how wet I am for him. My heart pounds so hard I feel it everywhere, even in my fingertips.
He goes still, his muscles locked tight.
For a second, I think he'll finally break, finally give in, and take what we both need.
But he doesn't.
Instead, he climbs off me and sits on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. "I can't," he rasps.
Three weeks of desperation, longing, and his goddamn martyr act boil over. I snap.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I sit up, seething.
He doesn't look up. "You said—"
"I said I wanted you to promise not to break me. I said I wanted the assurance that you'd stop if I used the safeword. Did I fucking use it? No. I want you, Asher. I need you. I'm crawling out of my skin."
He doesn't answer.
I stare at him, really stare, and I see how wrecked he is, how much it costs him to hold back. But I'm done tiptoeing around his guilt. I'm done being the thing he sacrifices at the altar of his redemption.
I get off the bed, stalk over to the dresser, and yank a pair of panties from the top drawer. I pull them on, then stalk to the door.
"Where are you going?" he asks, finally raising his head.
"If you're not going to fuck me, I'll do it myself. Maybe I'll call up Miles Andrews and see if he wants to watch the fucking show."
It's a low blow, but I'm beyond playing fair.
I don't even make it halfway down the hall before he grabs me from behind and pins me to the wall, one huge hand splayed across my belly. He's so much bigger than me, always has been, but it's never felt as good as it does now, with his chest pressed to my back and his mouth hot against my ear.
"You think I don't want you?" he growls, grinding his cock against my ass. "You think I don't spend every second of every day dying to fucking ruin you?"
"Then why don't you?" I spit back, writhing against him. "Why do you keep torturing me? Why do you make me beg for something you know I need?"
He hesitates, and for a moment, I think he won't answer. But then he whispers, so soft I almost don't hear it, "Because I'm scared I'll break you again like I did last time I was inside you."
He lets go of me and backs up, his hands shaking.
I whirl to face him, my own voice trembling. "Is that what this is about?"
He nods, his jaw clenched so tight I hear his teeth grind. "Last time…I made you cry. I hurt you. I don't ever want to hurt you like that again, Brielle."
I stare at him, stunned.
It's not anger or self-loathing or even control—it's terror, pure and simple. He's terrified that if he touches me the way I want, the way I need, he'll lose himself and hurt me. Or worse, that I'll hate him for it.
A wave of grief rushes through me, but it's not for myself. It's for him. I never should have demanded that he finish it that night. We used sex as a weapon, and it destroyed us both.
I step forward, slow and gentle, and lay my hands on his face. I force him to look at me.
"You never hurt me," I whisper. "Not when we were fucking.
Not even when you left bruises. Not even when you were inside me that night.
What hurt me was you shutting me out. It was you pushing me away when I needed you most. It was you making me believe I wasn't enough to keep you.
I wasn't crying when you were fucking me because you were hurting me.
I was crying because I knew it was the last time. Do you understand?"
He shakes his head, but I see hope flickering in his eyes.
"I wanted to hurt you that night, Asher. I wanted you to fuck me because I wanted you to know it was the last time, too." My voice shakes. "I wanted that thought to hurt you as much as it did me, and I wanted the memory to haunt you."
He stares at me, stroking my cheek like he's trying to soothe me, but I don't need to be soothed. I know what I did that night—what we did that night. And I didn't just forgive him three weeks ago. I forgave myself, too.
"I need you, Asher. Not the good man you think I deserve. I need the real you."
He swallows, then leans into my touch.
I take his hand and drag him back to the bed before pushing him down and crawling into his lap. "If you can't trust yourself, trust me. I'll tell you if you fuck up. I'll tell you if you hurt me. I'll use the safeword if you push too far."
He breathes out, a ragged, broken sound, and clutches my hips like I'm the only thing anchoring him to the world.
"I miss you," I whisper. "I miss us."
He buries his face in my neck, inhaling me.
"I miss you, too," he groans, his voice rough. "I miss you so fucking much."
"Then take me, Asher. I'm right here."
He hesitates for a long moment, so long I think maybe he's going to refuse, but then he groans softly and pulls me down beneath him, his mouth on mine, his hands roaming everywhere, urgent and frantic.
He kisses me like he's starving, like he's making up for every day he spent denying himself.
When he slides his hand under my panties, I moan, loud and unashamed.
"God, you're so wet for me," he whispers, rubbing slow circles over my clit until I'm gasping and shaking.
"Don't stop," I beg, my nails digging into his shoulders.
He laughs, the sound full of wicked promise. "Never," he growls.
He rips my panties off, tossing them across the room, and then pushes my thighs apart, staring at me like he's memorizing every detail.
"You're so fucking perfect," he breathes.
"Then fuck me. Please!"
His gaze flicks to mine, his expression a combination of command, need, and worry that has my heart thumping unevenly. "Use your safeword if you need it. Promise me."
"I promise," I gasp, writhing beneath him.