26. RYAN #2
I’m transfixed by the way our cocks slip against the other when we move, both fucking into Tate’s palm.
All the blood rushes to my dick as the pleasure consumes me, burning a fire up my spine.
He sets a rough and hurried pace, barely able to control himself—something unusual for my relentlessly composed husband.
Except when he’s with me. He loses himself with me, drugged or not.
He brings us to the edge more than once, backing off before we go over. Each time increasing the desperation of my movements. I can’t help it. I whine.
“I know, baby. But I like you needy for me, hanging off my every stroke. If I let you come it’ll be over. I want you to stay mine.”
I get what he means. Holding me on the edge of an orgasm is like having me on a leash, knowing we’re bonded tangibly. But we’re visceral by this point. I’m tied to him whether we’re in the same room or not, touching or not.
“I’m all yours, Tate. Every inch of me. Forever. Please.”
He finally lets me go over the edge, and I come hard over his hand, thrusting, thrusting, thrusting.
He doesn’t let the cum go to waste, scooping it up, pushing it inside me. I’m still enjoying the pleasure-filled tingles warming my body as I’m flipped, his fingers clawing my pants further down till my bare knees hit rain-softened earth.
Crack!
A razor-sharp handprint stings my ass cheek.
“Get that fucking ass in the air, for me.”
I barely have time to get in position, my forearms flat, knees spread as far as my pants around my calves will allow, and the crown of his cock is already nudging at my dripping entrance. He moves, sliding it in inch by inch, giving me time to adjust, my cum easing the way.
“I’m so, so, good, Tate. You can … can fuck me hard.” I want to feel him. Be full of my husband.
He glides in the rest of the way, his hips meeting my ass. He rocks his pelvis, dick throbbing inside me as the wet slaps echo through the trees.
“Look at you,” he says as he pumps faster. That luscious cock of his fucking in and out of me. “Knees in the dirt, ass begging for it. You need me so bad, don’t you, dollface?”
“Always.”
“Fuck, you make me delirious. I can’t even …
I’m gonna …” Whatever he was going to say fades into the slap, slap, slap of skin on skin, his pelvis smacking the hell out of my ass.
He freezes, and a breathy groan shudders from him as he comes.
More cum drips out of me with his movements, making a mess out of my thighs.
“Fucking, whoa, baby. You have no idea how good that was.”
My head falls between my forearms, and my ribcage shakes with laughter I try not to let him see. “I have some idea,” I say.
“No, really,” he insists as he fiddles back there, painting my inner thighs with us—his cum and mine—before he pulls my pants up for me. “We are doing that again. So many times.”
He pulls me on top of him, lying on his back on the hard forest floor, slipping his hand inside my jacket to find my heartbeat again. “You’re, like, totally the best thing ever.”
I laugh some more. This drug has turned my man into a valley girl. Wait till I tell him later.
“I’m so fucking in love with you, dollface,” he murmurs into my hair.
My heart trips over itself. He … he what? It’s the drugs. He’s got to be on the most fucked up of cocktails to keep him high for four days. He doesn’t mean that. Tate made it clear: he doesn’t know how to love.
Although I feel hella loved right now. Is there any harm in going with it? Just like the rest of this fever dream …
“I think I’ve been in love with you since the moment I sucked your dick in the forest.”
He laughs. “No, it wasn’t then.”
“You’re such an ass. You’re going to tell me when I fell in love with you?”
“It was when I abducted Kline—you knew the lengths I’d go for you,” he says, his voice wistful in a way Tate’s never is, honeyed by whatever’s pulsing in his veins. “It was my love letter to you, and you loved it.”
I can’t even tell him he’s wrong. Besides, Tate is too expert at puzzling out other people. He would have thought about it and done the things he knew would resonate with me.
Is that manipulation or deciphering someone’s love language so you can speak it? It’s a fine line. But Tate’s been honest about it. He’s never hidden it when he’s done something to gain my favor.
“You let Kline go.”
“I did,” he says. “But he’s a walking dead man. Once he’s served his purpose, I’ll dispose of him.”
“You’ll kill him?”
“He touched you,” he says as if it’s self-explanatory.
“Then why let him go?” It doesn’t make sense.
“I … huh. Can’t remember, baby.”
“They took Griff,” I say, jaw tight.
“I’ll get him back for you, baby.”
I don’t know if he can. “Did you know? Did Kline talk about who his sons were?”
Tate’s eyelids flutter. He fights to keep them open. Fuck. A cool breeze blows across us, shaking the trees. My skin prickles with goosebumps.
“Tate?” I slap his face. “Who did this to you?”
His eyes pop open. “Huh?”
“Who did this to you?” I repeat.
“Did what, dollface?” he murmurs, his fingers moving to my face. “Your eyes are pretty. Like a doll.”
His playful innocence makes it hard not to smile. Doesn’t he know he’s drugged? Probably not if he insisted on coming here. I sigh. “Never mind.”
“I won’t divorce you,” he says. “They can die, die, die.” He sings the words, making a stabbing motion with his free hand.
My body tenses. Why is divorce floating through his mind? Fuck. Present problems aren’t going to let us sink into this moment and be together, are they?
“Tate, we’re never getting divorced, remember?” I sit up on my elbow, so I can attempt to read his mind via his eyes.
“Clarence is going to tell Luke,” he says.
I squint as if that will help me pull the information I need. “Luke knows we’re married …” I trail off. But he doesn’t know about Tate’s secret life.
Fuck.
That fucking asshole.
It slots together in my head. He threatened to expose Tate to Luke if he didn’t comply with his demands.
“Shoulda killed Clarence when I had the chance,” he slurs, eyelids fluttering.
I grit my teeth, grinding them hard enough to break. I’m so fucking over people taking any tiny bit of happiness I manage to scrape out. “We can kill him now. I’ll help you.”
“Sorry for what I said about Rosaline,” he mumbles. His eyes are closed now. “Was just tryna piss your dad off. It worked.”
“Wait? Rosaline? My father? Tate,” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low. “What about Rosaline and my father?”
I try slapping his face again, but there’s nothing but the slow rise and fall of his chest. He’s out.
All I can do is watch him while my mind spins off with scenario after scenario.
Father’s involved. That’s the only reason why Rosaline’s been mentioned.
And … Father’s face makes sense now. I’d bet my life those bruises are the handiwork of my husband.
Griff is gone. Father is up to something with Clarence that involves us divorcing or him exposing himself to Luke—the only other person Tate cares about besides me.
The first person Tate ever cared about.
If they drugged him, he probably told them to go fuck themselves. But I can’t let him do that. Let him ruin his relationship with his brother for me.
I don’t matter.
I’m not important.
The people I love are important.
Everything Ethan told me comes to mind. The way Tate obsesses and fixates till he’s on the brink of his own destruction.
He’s doing that with me. They’ve made demands, ones I’m sure will ruin him.
He refused spectacularly. I wouldn’t be surprised if Tate told the commissioner about us himself, just to spite them.
He’s not only burning the world for me but burning his world for me.
He’s too obsessed to think clearly.
“I love you so fucking much, big guy. But I’m ruining your life,” I whisper. “I can’t ruin another life. You won’t go crazy because of me. Do you understand? I don’t have control over my life or Griff’s, but I have control over this.”
I plant a kiss on his lips and try not to cry. There’s no later for us—no sunsets and happiness. This is it. I knew better than to expect a happily ever after, yet here I fucking am anyway, in love like every deluded optimist I despise. I deserve the monsoon of pain in my chest.
The big monster snuffles as he sleeps. When I try to pull away from him, he senses it, summoning a cement grip even in his highly drugged sleep.
“Tate, let go.”
“Mine,” he murmurs. “Mine, mine, mine.”
God, he’s like a happy murderous little koala.
Guess I’m not going anywhere for a while. But, eventually, whatever he’s on will take him further under, and I’ll make my escape.