by Nola Sarina
I ignored him and walked around to his back, checking him out, stroking his incredible skin. “I’d like to scratch you back here sometime,” I said, letting my fingernails just barely bite into his flesh. “But you might sweat too much when we fuck. So I’d just hold on tight for the ride, I suppose.” Something powerful quivered in my voice, and as I spoke the fantasy aloud, I realized how badly I needed it, and how soon I’d snap if I didn’t get it. Sex with Asher. Good God, this desire was powerful . . . more powerful than I’d realized desire could be.
He groaned again, so I slipped my hands around his waist and traced his lowest ab cuts that dipped into his shorts with my thumbs. “These must be the fuck muscles,” I whispered, though I knew I should stop. I couldn’t resist, and it was as though my voice wasn’t under my command anymore. It was commanded by something too strong inside me, burning from somewhere between my most intimate wants and the needs of my soul. “I want these hips slamming against me, Asher. I want you between my legs.”
He spun around and snatched my chin with his fingers. His jaw tensed as he stared into my eyes, and I almost couldn’t function . . . his gaze was so dark. And then he kissed me long and hard, crushing my lips and then softening as I parted to slide my tongue along his lower lip. He tasted and tempted me, entering and departing me, and released me too soon. I moaned with emptiness.
“Hit the bag, Aria,” he ordered, and I knew I shouldn’t argue. His voice was heavy, loaded with insistence. I was pushing his boundaries, and though he wasn’t budging yet, I could see in his eyes—and shorts—that my boldness turned him on.
I threw a lame punch into the leather and then reached for him again.
“No, no!” He put his hands up. “I’m a professional trainer. I don’t make out with clients.”
“So you just help them get off at breakfast?”
“I’ve only done that once,” he said, shaking a teasing finger at me. “And you’re not my client outside of the gym.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Asher Chain, that’s terrible logic!”
He circled around the bag to get some space between us. “I didn’t inherit any logic from my parents. Gypsy got all that. I got the temper and the lust.”
“Oh good,” I said. “I seem to lack logic lately, too.”
He growled playfully at me through clenched teeth. “Hit the damn bag, Aria.”
I punched it with a force that wouldn’t maim a butterfly.
“Come on!” He wound up and planted a solid jab into the bag, knocking it off balance. I stared as it returned to its original position. “Get mad at it.”
“You don’t make me mad. You make me feel alive.”
His gaze softened a bit, and my heart swelled at how true my own words were.
“That was hot, though,” I continued. “Can I see that again?”
Asher rolled his eyes and planted ten solid strikes into the middle of the bag, huffing with controlled, practiced breath and retrieving his fists by his face every punch.
I stuck my thumb through the waistband of my workout shorts, dragging them down. His eyes followed. “Clearly, you’re the angry one here.”
“I’m easily angered when I want something at an inconvenient time. I’m an instant-gratification kind of guy.”
“Most rich men are, from what I’ve read. But aren’t you into waiting these days?” I batted my eyelashes with feigned innocence.
“Holy shit, Aria, quit being so cute! You’re distracting the hell out of me.”
“Am I?”
“Hit the fucking bag. Get mad at it. Something has to make you mad.”
Maybe I was pushing him too far. He wanted to work out, and I should respect that. It was his passion. But how could I hit when I was feeling so enamored by this flawless, confusing man?
What made me mad? Sounds echoed in my memory—my mother’s voice, her cries, her screams. The other noises that followed, noises that meant I was responsible for things far too big for my heart to handle. Noises that meant I’d face the worst kind of heartbreak simply because she didn’t care at all about any of us, as long as I was useful to her.
Asher didn’t need to know those things. How could I tell him that some people were simply vile human beings? And that I came from one of them?
“Kittens.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Kittens piss me off.” Oh, crap, what a lie. I hoped he wouldn’t ask for an explanation.
“Kittens,” Asher repeated.
I nodded, digging deep inside myself to summon some amount of truth within the lie. “They’re so fucking cocky. You prioritize them, you care for them, and then they’re all, ‘clean up my feces and I’ll pretend to catch mice for you, but really I’ll just lie around meowing and wrecking shit.’”
His eyebrows drew together as he listened to my rant. Probably questioning my sanity.
“You don’t think little, fuzzy, ragdoll kittens are cute?”
He was goading me, or perhaps trying to search for the truth in such an obvious lie, and I took the bait. “Hell no! They’re not even pretty. You’d think they would be, by the name, but they look like they got hit in the face with a shovel. Cute things are never all they’re cracked up to be.” Yet you miss them when they’re gone, so bad it’s like your heart is falling apart, I didn’t add.
“Why do kittens make you mad?”
I flexed my hands at my sides, vibrating with restraint. I hated my own dishonesty, but Asher couldn’t know the true things that tortured me inside, the emotions I tried to leave behind at home. It was all too ugly. “You think it’s going to want to cuddle. But then it cries all night long and won’t eat the food you buy it and barfs on your favorite shirt and as soon as you manage to doze off, you’re up again because it’s digging into something it shouldn’t or sticking something dangerous in its mouth.”
Asher’s eyes darted back and forth between mine, and I wondered if he was hearing more meaning than I meant to show him. Crap. I had to spin this story back on a believable track. I’d rather he think I was mentally unstable than know the monster of a past I was trying so hard to abandon.
“You know what the kittens do eventually? Just to piss us off?”
He planted his hands on his hips and let an adoring smile touch his mouth. “What do the kittens do to piss us off?”
“They bury their shit with their paws and walk on your fucking pillow. What kind of friend, feline or human, does that? Even dogs have the sense to keep their paws out of their shit and off your pillow. And then you see the dirty little kitten footprints trailing all the way from the litter box to your bed and you know, Asher, you know there are microscopic little particles of cute-kitten shit on your pillow. All over everything, too, because they dig like gross little freaks in their pissy litter boxes, kicking up all the dust. How cute would you find me if I shit on your pillow? Or wiped my ass with it? Would that be fucking cute?” My heart pounded as I ranted, as smells and loneliness and frustration wafted back to me through memory of a childhood that was overwhelmed by sorrow and responsibility.
He closed his slack mouth and half-smiled. “Aria, do you suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder?”
I knew he meant nothing except curiosity by it, but I was too frustrated by the memories—and my unfair dishonesty—to hold it in any longer. I let out a snarl and slammed my fists into the bag, the impact jarring my shoulder in a strangely relieving way, my elbows snapping back with each strike in a neat rhythm. I picked up pace, punching faster and harder, huffing like Asher did when he hit.
And after a while, I slowed, and I felt calmer. Better. Even my psychotic need to jump Asher whether he wanted me to or not cooled a bit. I stopped and dropped my arms to my sides.
He found my fingers. “You are so unbelievably unpredictable. You surprise me at every turn.”
“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t meet his gaze.
“No. Don’t ever be sorry. You make me feel alive, too.”
I glanced up at that,
stunned, and found him smiling, his eyes swimming with sincerity as his thumb traced my knuckles, soothing the burn from beating the leather.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said.
• • •
The workout was divine. After the hour, I slipped upstairs to shower and start on dinner while Asher took time for a workout of his own. He said he liked to get in the zone and focus on nothing but the performance of his body, improving little things one at a time. His dedication was amazing, and I couldn’t help but feel inspired by his attention to his art. His body was his art, and what a masterpiece he made it.
I had nothing to offer the man who had everything. But I could show my appreciation for him. How better to do that than by feeding him well? I grinned with pride at my own cleverness as the steak popped and sizzled in the pan, filling his apartment with aromas of garlic, whipped potatoes, and peppered meat.
I cleaned up the counter and poured a tall rum and Coke for Asher, and then one for myself. Liquid courage, I thought as I took a sip. Of course, his flawless physique and the fire he ignited inside me gave me more boldness than I thought I’d ever have.
I wanted to break his resistance to my body, to show him how much I adored him, and get some of this need cooled down so I could concentrate on all the simpler, beautiful things about him. I needed to be able to focus, and my drive to get him inside me was so strong I couldn’t ignore it. Maybe if we got the deed done, I’d simmer down and have some room in my brain for normal conversation, without always turning it into something sexual.
I’m behaving like a teenaged boy. I stabbed a steak with frustration and slid them both onto the waiting plates to rest while I garnished the potatoes with fresh, chopped chives.
The door clicked just as I was passing the plates across the breakfast bar. Asher slipped off his shoes, still wearing nothing but his boxing shorts. I was glad I wasn’t carrying the plates anymore – I would have dropped them at the sight of him like I dropped the coffee.
“Hey,” I said, sweeping into his arms and delighting in the aroma of his sweat. I kissed his chest and tasted the salt of hard work, and he wrapped me up in his arms.
“You’re not even out of breath,” I noticed.
“I do a long cool-down after my workout. Yoga.”
Damn, I wished I had stuck around to watch that.
He inhaled long and deep. “It smells amazing in here.” He slipped his hands beneath my shirt and held my bare back, a routine that sent little zings of excitement through my legs. I craned up to take a gentle kiss from his lips.
“I hope you don’t mind that I cooked.”
He pulled back and searched my eyes. His pupils seemed lighter, or smaller, and I studied the beautiful, striking starburst of black as a sly smile pulled his lips up. “What man in his right mind would have a problem with a beautiful woman cooking in his home?”
“I just mean you opened your home to me, and here I am touching all your shit without permission.”
“Did you wipe your ass with my pillow?”
I paled. Oh my God, I really said that to him. My voice barely squeaked out. “No, of course I didn’t.”
He laughed and stroked the skin of my sides with his thumbs, that desire curling through me like hot vines. “I said to make yourself at home. Would you cook at home?”
I cringed at the mention of home. “Yeah, I would.”
“Then please, by all means, continue to touch my shit.”
An opening. “All your shit?” I snaked my arm between our bodies and stroked my hand once along his groin, my heart kicking up with excitement as I felt him hard and ready for action.
His eyes tightened just a bit and he drew a deep breath, which he released with a low hum. I shifted closer and rubbed him again.
Asher cleared his throat and stepped back, rubbing his neck. “It smells amazing in here,” he repeated.
Rejection twisted in my chest, but I wasn’t about to back down. He was resisting me out of some ridiculous notion that I felt I owed it to him, and nothing could be further from the truth. I advanced on him, cornering him by the door, and as I pressed against him, he cupped me by the ass and kissed me with open, wanting lips.
His tongue swept into my mouth. I moaned at the taste as his hands tightened, squeezing me, tugging me closer. He nipped at my lower lip once, and I squeaked with pleasure, and then he soothed the bite with his tongue. I slid my hands up his chest and panted into his mouth as I forgot all about steak.
As suddenly as the kiss began, he broke it, moving his arm to my thighs and scooping me up into the air against his side.
“Hey!” I protested with a squeal. “Put me down.”
“Nope. You’re clearly not sound of mind right now, so I better get you fed before you do something stupid.”
I smacked him on the shoulders, loving the sting of skin-on-skin. “I’m not going to do anything stupid. How could sucking you off be stupid?”
His breath hitched at my words and he plopped me down onto a barstool. “Okay, I’ll rephrase. I need to eat before I do something stupid.”
“Like sinking it into me and breaking your savor-the-torture bullshit rule?” Whoa. I slapped my hand in my mind again, stunned that this need inside me was quickly spinning into anger.
He clenched his jaw, the playful mood in the air shifting to one of rejection. I sighed. “It’s just . . . you want me. I know you do. But sex with me is ‘something stupid?’” I flicked my fingers in air quotes to demonstrate my frustration. “What am I supposed to think, here? That you’ll regret me?”
Asher sat and lifted my sullen chin with his fingertip, and then smoothed my furrowed brow with his thumb. “You’re supposed to think I care about you, and don’t want to treat you like trash. I’ve thrown away every woman I’ve ever touched, and you’re too important to me to be one of them. I’d never forgive myself for throwing you away.”
“What do you mean, treating them like trash? You screw them and dump them? I know you won’t do that to me.”
He looked away. I couldn’t see his eyes, but something in his posture rang an alarm in my head. There was shame in his history, or remorse, or deeply hidden pain.
I slid his rum and Coke across the breakfast bar. “I’m sorry. Not my business, I know.”
He glanced at the glass, and then at me. His eyes showed a depth of pain I hated, and I wanted to climb into his lap and kiss away his remorse for whatever he’d done. But somehow, I knew if I did that, I’d make it worse.
“It’s more your business than you realize,” he said. “But I can’t keep talking about this in front of a beautifully prepared steak. I won’t be able to eat if we keep talking about this.”
I flinched. How could it be that bad? I pushed the glass an inch further. “Then let’s eat, and forget about your bullshit rule for a while.”
Asher’s hardened expression relaxed and he scooped up the glass, draining it halfway. He flashed me his brilliant smile as he picked up his fork and knife, the sadness of a moment ago almost hidden behind it.
Almost, but not quite.
“Thank you for the meal, Aria,” he said, cutting into the meat.
My earlier plan wavered as I considered the weight of his regret—for whatever reason—about the women he’d treated poorly in the past. But the best way to soothe pain was through pleasure, I figured. I wanted him to see me fearless of his past, though it worried me more than I’d told him. He didn’t need my judgment. So I slipped off the barstool and stripped down to my panties a step behind him. He dug into his food with such aggression I imagined he must have worked out hard. Wearing nothing but a bright, lacy pink thong, I scooted up onto the bar between our plates, crossing my ankles.
Asher froze mid-bite, a chunk of steak in his mouth, his gaze locked on my hips. I watched him, waited for him to move, but he just stared.
I reached to my other side and cut off a chunk of steak, popping it into my mouth.
Asher blinked a few times and sat b
ack, chewing and drinking in the sight of my almost-nude form. He adjusted his shorts and swallowed, delight tugging on the corners of his eyes. I knew I was in good shape, but he was in flawless shape and I was helpless to my desire when he was shirtless. I wondered if my physique did the same things to him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I swallowed my food. “Sitting naked on your breakfast bar.”
“Why?”
“I thought that’s how you prefer to eat.”
“It is, very much, how I prefer to eat.”
I cut another bite and watched him stare at my mouth as I chewed. It was a little weird, but the desire in his eyes was clear. “Do I look good with meat in my mouth?”
That darkness was back in his glare, mixed with arousal. “Oh, yes. Particularly meat that belongs to me.”
I took a long pull of my drink and he did the same. “You should eat.”
“I’m thinking about it,” he said with a smirk.
“Actually eating your steak would be more productive than thinking about it.”
“I’m thinking about eating, but not my steak.”
“Oh?” Fire ignited between my legs and I squeezed my thighs together, squirming with wanting.
He noticed. His gaze dropped to my panties and lingered there for a long moment, and then he reached forward and slipped a finger beneath the strap on the side of my hip. He dragged his finger slowly over the crease of my thigh, tickling, and then slid it down to the center of the fabric. Oh. He touched me once, his smooth, strong finger stroking sensitive skin, and my breathing quickened.
Before I had a moment to say anything, he swept both plates and the cutlery onto the floor, shifted me on to my back on the breakfast bar and climbed between my legs. I shrieked with surprise as ceramic shattered and he grabbed my hips, tugged my heat against the erection bulging through his shorts, and buried his mouth in the crook of my neck, groaning.
His hands roamed everywhere, and I needed him so badly. I threw a leg around his back and reached down to shed my panties, but he stopped my wrist and pinned my hand above my head.
I giggled at the challenge and tried with the other hand, but he pinned it up as well. I searched his expression to try and figure out if he wanted this as much as he seemed to, but he smothered my wonder with a long, slow kiss that drove all questions to the back of my mind, his tongue tender in my mouth and his lips soft, all the frantic energy of a moment ago replaced by a delicious smolder deep in my core. His mouth was hypnotic and hot, and I lapped at him, hungry for more.
