“Anything.”
His body felt tight now—set like a trap and ready to spring. I wondered if his cock was as hard and restless as his muscles.
“Why are we watching football highlights?” I whispered, mouth at his jaw.
He smiled against my lips. “What would you rather be doing?”
“Terrible, filthy things.”
“Like what?”
“I won’t know ’til we’re doing them.”
A warm, gloating little laugh. “Your bed’s still all messed up from what we did last night.”
“It is.”
“I’ve thought about that. About you, naked on a big pile of sheets and covers.”
“Is that all?” I asked innocently.
“Your hair all messy. And the smell of you just . . . everywhere.”
I studied him fondly. “You were always the strangest mix of things, in my fantasies. Like, desperate and rough at the same time. Like you could beg me for something in one breath and boss me around in the next.”
“Because you didn’t really know me then?”
“No, not that . . . More like, you were just everything I wanted from a man. Helpless and powerful, and sweet and nasty, all wrapped up in one lover. Like I could make you feel all that.”
“You did. You still do.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded and kissed my forehead. “Take me to your room and I’ll show you.”
I stood, his hand slipping from my waist to my hip before I captured it in mine. We left the TV droning, padded down the hall and into my room. Christ, it still smelled of sex. Intoxicating.
He turned, big arms snaking around me, chest brushing back and forth against my breasts, lighting me up. “Tell me how you want me.” His words caressed my temple.
I spoke thoughtlessly. “Hungry. And like you can take anything you want. Anything you’ve been missing.”
“All those times I told you, I wouldn’t ask for anything ’til I got you off first. But last night . . .”
“I loved how you were last night. All crazy.”
“Not today, though,” he murmured. Growled, more like. “Today you make me work for it.”
Chapter Thirteen
Eric’s hands were between us, freeing the one, two, three little pearl buttons on my cardigan. He felt so tall, so damn tall. His chin at my forehead, his body seeming to cast a shadow even with the sun coming through the gauzy curtains.
I let him unwrap me like a gift—sweater, camisole, bra. His hands slid from my face to my shoulders, over my breasts to rob me of air. Down my belly as he dropped to his knees. Down to my hips, where he slipped his fingers under the wide band of my yoga pants. He kissed my navel as the stretchy fabric slid over my thighs, cool air tensing my skin. My boy shorts were red with white polka dots, and I’d picked them on purpose. Utterly silly compared to Eric’s utilitarian world at Cousins, and different surely than the lingerie sported by the models in whatever magazines made the rounds inside. Exotic, I hoped. Some goofy flavor of feminine he’d forgotten about. Unique to me, maybe, as oddly possessive as the notion was.
I ran my fingers through his hair, nails raking his scalp. He made a hungry noise that heated my belly, and slid my pants and underwear to my ankles. I stepped out of them and pushed off my socks. In a breath he was on his feet again—hand on my butt, a mighty motion, a gasp from me, then my legs were wrapped around his waist and my arms circled his neck, and he was carrying me the half-dozen paces to the bed. We lay down as one, the rumpled sheets cool at my back, Eric hot and eager above me. He sat back on his heels and peeled his shirt away. My hands on his face, in his hair; his mouth claiming mine, our bare chests brushing. His hips grinding, forcing me wide, and Christ, his cock—hard behind his jeans, insistent at the crease of my thigh. I felt him shudder, a soft moan thrumming between our mouths. I shuddered, too, just to feel this with someone again.
He leaned back to grasp the outsides of my thighs, working his excitement against mine. His muscles flexed—abs, chest, arms, shoulders, and those just below his ribs. It was like the sexiest scene from a racy movie, only real. Happening to me. I could watch his body for hours. But what he’d said, about being smaller before he’d been put away . . . If it was prison that had rebuilt him this way, was I bad for rejoicing as I was? Reveling in this glorious physique he’d cultivated out of boredom—or worse, in self-defense?
Fuck it.
“I love your body,” I told him, and let my eyes and hands wander wildly.
“Good. I love the way you look at me.” As though wallowing in the thought, he slowed his motions, rolled his hips in a brash show of power. I clamped my palms to his sides, feeling him work.
Gorgeous body and damn, that face. I drank him in, those features that so perfectly matched the rest of him—strained now and dangerous, dripping with sex.
I let my hands slip low and unbutton his fly, and he did the rest—jeans and underwear lost over the edge of the mattress. Just us now. He tangled our legs and turned us onto our sides. As we kissed, a smile overtook me, so broad he must have felt it. He pulled away.
“What?” he asked, his own curious smile blooming.
And then I did the worst possible thing I could.
I burst into tears.
Through the blur, I watched his eyes widen, his surprise perfectly mirroring my own. His body went slack and he stroked my hair. “Hey, hey. You okay?”
I nodded, burning face all screwed up. I sucked an ugly breath, trying to get my voice working.
He didn’t panic, just kissed my temple and cradled my head as I gulped and gurgled. The tears ebbed and my clenching jaw loosened.
“God, sorry.” I wiped at my cheeks, surely beet red. “I’m not upset, I swear.”
“Just feeling too much?”
“Not too much, even. Just . . . a lot. More than I’ve felt in ages. I think maybe I just boiled over.”
I heard a little noise in his throat, a speck of a laugh, and he held me tighter. “Go ahead and cry, then.”
“I’m done, thanks.”
He pulled back then kissed my mouth, probably tasting my tears. His neck was warm and smelled of my soap as I rested my cheek against it and caught my breath.
“We’ve got all day to do what we came in here to do,” he murmured. “If you need to keep relaxing.”
“I just want to lie right here for a minute.”
He ran his hand over my hair, smoothing it away from my face. “You got it.”
After a minute, my voice broke the calm silence, the words coming without intention. “The last time I cried, it was after I got your letter. The one after I messed up and snuck a letter in to you.”
His stroking hand froze. “Because I chewed you out?”
“Oh, no. No no no.” I pulled away to meet his eyes with my surely pink ones. “No, I cried because I was so relieved . . .” Oh shit, did I really want to say all this?
“Relieved because . . . ?”
I took a deep breath. “Because after I gave you that letter, I freaked out. The second I left it with you, I realized I’d basically handed you a weapon you could use against me. And I was so scared all of a sudden, that everything you’d written to me, maybe it wasn’t true.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Jesus, this is so unromantic.”
“It’s okay. That’s smart stuff to be freaked out about.”
My tense muscles softened some. “Then when you gave me that letter back, it was . . . It was the most relief I’ve ever felt. It was like I’d treasured this thing so much, then thought maybe I was about to lose it, tortured myself over it . . . And then it was given back to me, like, threefold.”
“That’s kind of how it’s been for me, since I got out. Like we had all that, when I was still inside, then I fucked up, th
ought I’d gotten it taken away for good.”
“Except now here we are,” I said, lacing my fingers with his. “In my bed, no less.”
“I want to promise I won’t ever make you cry again . . . but I don’t know if anyone can make that promise to somebody they’re so wrapped up with.”
I pictured his face from our last encounter in Cousins, the moment after I’d told him I couldn’t see him on the outside. How he’d turned away, looking on the verge of tears, himself. I had that power, too.
“We can only promise to try, I guess.” But in my heart, selfish though it was, I was awed and humbled to even have such powers. Floored to know I made a man feel so much. And one I felt so much for in return.
His jaw was stubbly against my palms. I held his face and kissed him deeply, first with gratitude, then with need. I felt it all returned to me in his hunger, in the heat building between us.
His leg locked around mine and his cock had grown stiff, pressing into the crease at my thigh and hip. My body responded, excitement a rising fire in my belly. He let me explore him with my hands as we kissed. From the soft, loose curls brushing the nape of his neck, to the muscle that hugged his shoulder, to the flat planes of his chest and the whisper of dark hair there. His entire torso tensed as I brushed one small, tight nipple, and the reaction fascinated me. I stroked that hard belly next and set his hips fidgeting. Amazing, how connected his body felt. He must have shut all of this off while he was locked up, sexual pleasure relegated to rushed, furtive acts of joyless necessity. I’d done the same, for just as long . . . though my sexual exile had been a sort of hibernation, not a captivity. How wonderful to know the impulse and synapses were all still here, waiting for us, undamaged by the neglect. Maybe even heightened by it.
I palmed his hip, memorizing the restless flex of muscle and the hard hint of bone beneath it. In turn he only held my head, seeming as lost in my explorations as I was. When I wrapped my fingers around his erection, he moaned against my lips, body tensing in a long wave.
This man wants you, I thought as soft skin glided over stiff flesh, as his excitement wet the heel of my hand. As his kisses turned to nothing more than a distracted brush of lips. He wants you like no one has before. He craved me, the way other men craved their addictions. The notion was mesmerizing, as was the undeniable mutuality of it.
“I want you,” I whispered against his mouth.
“You ready for me?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but instead slipped his hand between our melee of legs. The tips of his curled fingers found me wet, and together we skipped a breath.
I let him go to grope for the bedside table, for the condoms. He took over, sheathed in a blink, his thigh knocking mine wide as he got positioned above me. The world slowed as he gripped himself, his impatience suddenly gone. With his crown he slicked the length of my lips, again and again, his dark eyes drunk. I bucked each time he glanced my clit, the caress knotting me too tight, and I grabbed his arms, prepared to beg.
But I didn’t have to. He gave me his head, just that first taste of penetration. My nails bit the swells of his shoulders.
“More?” he asked.
“Yes. Everything.”
He granted my wish, pushing deeper, deeper, so deep our hips met, and he held there, palms coming to rest on either side of my ribs. His excitement, hugged in mine. The most perfect design. The sole expression our bodies were made for, it felt just then.
My gaze roamed up his belly and chest to his face, and his mouth twitched in a funny little smile. He freed a hand to brush the hair from my forehead, then linger, thumb tracing my brow, cheek, lips. He tucked his arm close at my side again.
The thick, hard heat inside me retreated, then surged anew. Slow strokes to start, the pace mounting as his breaths became grunts. Eager, I met him thrust for thrust with my hips. The momentum grew frantic as he rushed to give me what I demanded, and I rose to meet him, the rhythm sloppy and all the more perfect for it.
“You like it on top?” he asked.
I sobered by a degree. “I’m not very good at it.”
“I want to see you, like that.”
I nodded. For this man, anything.
He took everything away, his weight and heat and shadow, lying down. His cock was so perfectly obscene, hovering above his belly and gleaming in the daylight. Shameless. I wanted to feel the same—proud and exposed in the sunshine.
I straddled him and he angled himself, helped me slide into place. I had to shut my eyes a moment, the expression on his face was so intense. His voice opened them again.
“Let me give you whatever you need.”
That melted me. That this position wasn’t just about the view for him. That he was offering himself for me to use, and take pleasure from. I’d been with guys this way before, but they’d always struck me as . . . lazy. After it for the show and a chance to sit back and do nothing. Not Eric. His body was as restless in repose as it had been above me, tense and ready to deliver. His strong hands held my thighs, his dark eyes waited.
I started to move, just a short slide forward, an easing back. “Tell me if you like it some other way.”
“Do whatever feels good to you. That’s all I want.”
“I’m pretty rusty.”
He smiled, so patient in the face of my stalling and insecurity. “Me, too. We’ll figure it out together.”
I returned his smile, ignoring a fresh sting—grateful tears I wouldn’t shed now.
“Here,” he said, taking my wrists. “Lean in, so you don’t have to just balance up there. It doesn’t have to be a show.”
I braced my hands at his sides and he stroked my arms.
“Just mess around. See if you find a way that feels good. And don’t worry about me—I could watch you exploring this stuff with me for days.”
I nodded. I fidgeted and experimented, found an angle that was easy on my hips and let me move freely, backward and forward, with total control over the friction. When Eric brought his knees up behind me, the soft bump of his thighs against my butt offered the most unexpected, erotic jolt.
“Oh,” I murmured. “That’s good.”
When I began moving in earnest, he joined me, tensing his body to intensify all my motions.
“Wow.” I went faster, finding a sweet little pang on every upstroke when my clit rubbed against the base of his cock. As good as my hand. Better, even, the friction more coarse than smooth fingertips, more exciting. Unmistakably male.
When my back whined, growing sore, I dropped down to my forearms. My entire body caught fire. More friction, only now it was my nipples against his chest. It ran through me, joining up with the pleasure between my legs. I groaned, the sound caught between shock and hunger.
I was going to come. I’d never, ever come like this. In fact I couldn’t remember ever coming during intercourse without using my fingers, and this was so infinitely more intense. Like I really was using him. Stealing this pleasure from his cock, stroking my desire right against his.
I heard myself say, “Oh my God.”
“Take it. Whatever you need.”
Fuck, his voice. As good as the physical sensations. “Keep talking. Or moan. Anything.”
“Use me,” he said. “Use my cock, Annie.”
“Fuck.”
“Feel how hard you make me?”
“Yeah.” The world was tilting, gravity a force concentrated in this man’s body, in this sex. Everything was honed, focused, drawn achingly tight against him.
“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he told me.
And that did me in—always that. Knowing that as badly as I’d wanted him all these months, he’d wanted me just as much. That he’d imagined all of this then believed it was lost . . . until I brought it back to him.
I came as I never had by my own hand. The pleasure was a relentless wave, its crest g
oing on longer than I’d ever felt, carrying me out, out, out. Then the crash, the deepest dive before I finally reached the bottom.
The room rematerialized, one object and one wall at a time, and there I was again. Spacey, panting. A mess, but happy for it. Let this man see what he did to me.
As the haze lifted, his own excitement and need stole my focus. The swell of his chest told me how hard he was breathing, and I could feel his pulse inside me as surely as I could see it beating along his flushed throat. His hands were patient, but his eyes wild.
He grabbed my waist and sat up, driving his cock deep inside me, holding me tight as he made it to kneeling. Then it was his hands on my ass, guiding me to ease off, then claim him whole. Inside a dozen breaths he was simply holding me still, the thrusts all his, those hips rising up again, again, again.
Strong. The word echoed in my head with every impact, ringing with awe.
His head dropped, mouth jetting steam against my shoulder. I felt him faltering, muscles losing their finesse. With a surrendering groan he eased me onto my back and came down on his elbows, his big frame dropping over me like nightfall.
His voice was tight, locked up hard like his body. “You ready for it?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me. Tell me to.” My God, this man. This violent ex-con, bigger and rougher than just about anyone he might pass on the street, and yet . . . Tell me to. Mine to command. So eager to please.
“Let me see it, Eric. Let me see you lose control.”
His hips raced, coordination slipping. “Feels so good.”
I slipped my hand between us and stroked his cheek. Traced his lower lip with my thumb, and when his mouth opened, I slipped it inside. He sucked a moment, then released me with a groan, gulped a breath. The order implicit in that tiny act of penetration wound him up, same as a spoken command. Another suck, another hot breath, and he was coming apart before my eyes. I swept the wet pad of my thumb back and forth across his lips. Those brown eyes shut as the tendons along his neck stood out, and the hips hammering into me locked up. His moans were silent, their energy diverted to the muscles that clenched and released, clenched again, then finally fell slack.
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