“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t…I honestly don’t have complicated feelings.”
“Oh, of course not. You just made your hands bleed because…?”
“I…like…to do that.”
It almost sounded as if he were asking. She could hear the question mark on the end, even though no question mark should have been there. He just had to put one in, upon realizing how insane the explanation sounded. She couldn’t fault him for the insanity, however. He’d obviously boxed himself in with that one tentative like, and then had to follow through.
Even if following through meant admitting something he clearly didn’t mean to.
“So you’re a masochist.”
“No. No not that.”
“A sadist then?”
“Please don’t talk about sex things.”
She came close to doing a double take. Had he just said sex? She was sure he had. It was the only possible explanation for her current inability to swallow. Something large and sharp seemed to be lodged in her throat, and every time she tried to speak a kind of throttled sound came out instead.
It took everything she had to squeeze out words, and when they finally came they weren’t the ones she wanted. They just basically repeated what he’d said, with extra heated incredulity.
“You don’t want to talk about sex things?”
“I just want to go back to my workout.”
“Well maybe I could work out with—”
“No!”
She jerked at the sound, and not just because of the volume. It was also the speed of that one spat word, like something shot from a gun. He just aimed it at her chest and pulled the trigger, and though she tried to keep her face from sinking she could feel it was going anyway. Stopping it was sort of like trying to hold ten gallons of mud in her hands, and of course it ended badly.
He could see it had ended badly. The moment he registered her wavering smile he tried to correct himself, and she appreciated that.
Even if his efforts were a little shaky.
“I mean…you probably wouldn’t like it. I don’t do anything interesting or fun. I just do a lot of punching, as you’ve seen.”
“So maybe you can try to punch me.”
“You want me to try to punch you?”
Now it was his turn to repeat things in an incredulous manner, apparently.
“Well maybe not actually punch, since you’d probably kill me. But we could spar together, right?” she tried, though she didn’t know why. She’d just wanted to carry on spending time with him, and was now somehow trapping herself into a wrestling match—and worse, she had trapped him too.
She hadn’t meant to, but it was obvious nonetheless. He seemed to be attempting algebra in his head, and when she strained hard she could almost hear what the equation entailed—my second refusal multiplied by an assumption that she isn’t capable equals I’m an asshole.
It made her want to immediately take it back.
But just as she was about to, he nodded.
“All right,” he said in a way that reminded her of a farmer forced to end an animal’s suffering. Grimly determined, with a hint of agony.
It wasn’t a good start to whatever this was going to be. All she could now imagine was him bonking her on the head with a shovel, or maybe getting her into a soothing chokehold. He could pet her hair and say shhh, shhh as he slowly strangled her to death, and she wouldn’t be able to say anything.
She’d asked for this.
Now she had to actually do it. She had to stand on the pathetically thin exercise mat and put her hands up, even though she’d never done that before. Usually when she sparred with someone she just stood very still and waited for them to make a terrible move, which they nearly always did. Most of the men she’d worked with assumed she was weak, and went for her like a blundering bull.
But then, that was the problem. It was why she was trying to make a shield out of her forearms, and couldn’t remember how to stand.
He wasn’t like those other men. He wouldn’t charge her like that, or make some ridiculous error. She couldn’t use his weight or his momentum against him, because he never carried himself like his weight or momentum mattered. He was a completely unknowable entity, and that put her on edge.
As did the way he was currently looking at her. They stood across the mat from each other, mired in a silence so deep it seemed to crackle. And all the while he was just staring staring staring in a way she knew only too well. He’d never done it before, but other people had.
He was sizing her up. He was checking for weaknesses. And he was doing it so intently it was kind of making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She wanted to rub her arms in case the same thing was visible there, though she wasn’t sure it would matter. He probably already knew she was nervous.
He probably knew all the reasons why too—and not just the fighting reasons. There was also the sudden realization that they were going to touch, as sharp and bright as a struck match. They had to touch, if they were really going to do this. They couldn’t just stand here looking at each other for a thousand years.
Though she was starting to suspect he wanted to. The longer this strange standoff went on the more tense he looked, until she could see a muscle ticking in his jaw. His hands bunched into fists, so tight it made his bloody knuckles worse, and when he finally did something it was so weak and ineffectual she was almost insulted.
He just batted at her with one open hand, as though she’d somehow turned into a fly without knowing it. The blow didn’t even make contact, and not because she’d stepped it away. It missed because he hadn’t tried. It missed because he didn’t want to try. His second attempt was just as bad as his first, open-handed and obviously aiming for the air rather than her.
Only this time, irritation made her react. She waited until that one lazy hand had passed her by, and then just did what she would usually do. She gave him a little jab to the ribs, where he’d left himself open. Not hard of course, not hard, but enough to let him know that she was here and paying attention. He couldn’t just get away with that weak sort of bullshit, and now he knew it.
He really, really knew it. The moment her fist connected his laser-gaze snapped to her, and his whole body seemed to stiffen. It was kind of like flicking a switch, though she had no idea what said switch was connected to. His immense and irrepressible rage? His wounded pride?
She hadn’t thought either of those two things existed in him, but quite obviously they did. He wouldn’t have suddenly grabbed her arm if they were absent—but he did just that a second later. His hand snapped out all snakelike, and got her biceps in a punishing grip. And just in case that move wasn’t quite scary enough, he dragged her close the second he had hold.
He dragged her so hard her feet seemed to leave the ground, briefly. Of course, she knew that was probably down to their relative heights. He was over a foot taller than she, so any kind of pulling-her-to-him sort of move was very likely to lift her up. He probably hadn’t intended to toss her around like a rag doll.
But still, she found herself panicking a little. He was just so enormous and suddenly fierce, and she was so ridiculous and unprepared. What if he decided to take advantage of that fact? He was hardly likely to have any trouble. She couldn’t even get proper purchase on the floor again, or reach his face with her free hand. When he held her at arm’s length she was too far away to do it—a thought that doubled her terror.
Until she remembered who she was dealing with.
Lord, she should have remembered who she was dealing with. Sergei Dehane didn’t have a mean or aggressive or prideful side. He had a side that made him hold her like this so she couldn’t hit him again. And when she tried to restart the fight he obviously didn’t want to have, he went one better than that.
He yanked her to him, near spinning her as he did so. Then once her back was to his front, he simply wrapped his arms around her middle. He made a cage of his immense bulging biceps and his gigan
tic hands, so tight she could hardly move. She was reduced to some rather pathetic kicking and a bit of ineffectual squirming, while he panted and huffed behind her.
Apparently, her squirming wasn’t that ineffectual.
“Stop it. Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop wriggling.”
“I’m not. I can’t.”
“It feels like you are. It feels like you’re moving around a lot—fuck.”
“Well maybe if you let me go I wouldn’t have to. I mean, for God’s sake this isn’t sparring. This is just you holding on to me like—”
She stopped mid-sentence as realization stuttered through her mind. He’d just said fuck, like something was wrong. And he’d said it in a very specific sort of way too. He’d said it like he had when they’d been in bed—all rough and kind of desperate—and after a moment she understood why.
She wasn’t just wriggling in his arms.
She was rubbing up against him.
Oh God, she was rubbing up against him. How had that happened? When had it happened? She was certain she’d just wanted to escape, and yet somewhere in the middle of her frantic efforts she’d accidentally started fondling him with the back of her body. It was as if she were trying to scratch an itch between her shoulder blades, only she was doing it by arching her body and being kind of lewd.
Not even kind of, really.
She was being really, really lewd. It was obvious she was, by the way he seemed to be reacting. And it wasn’t just the moans, either. It wasn’t just the shuddering feel of him, so close to how he’d been in bed with her, but so far at the same time. There was something else, something that got her by the jugular the moment she realized it.
He was trying to get away. He was trying to get away while staying exactly where he was. His whole body from the waist down was kind of bowing away from hers, even as he squeezed his arms tighter and hugged her closer. And though none of this should have been remotely exciting, she had to admit…
It kind of was.
A shock of heat went through her as soon as she understood, so thick and intense it made her go a little limp. For a second she just sort of hung over his arms, unable to struggle or squirm or breathe. Was he actually torn by desire? She couldn’t quite believe he was—it seemed like something that only existed in torrid novels about manly duty.
Yet she could feel the tension in him, as clear as anything she’d ever experienced. She pressed back and he almost went into a crouch, trying to avoid her—but then in the same instant squeezed her to him so hard she couldn’t breathe. It was like seeing someone act out indecision in the most bizarre, violent way possible, and she didn’t mind admitting it was making her crazy.
Most of her really wanted to let him work this thing out. But at the same time, a big part couldn’t help wondering where his breaking point was. What had pushed him over the last time? Had she moved a certain way, or breathed in a different manner, or maybe made a sound he simply couldn’t resist?
She wasn’t sure, and keeping still wasn’t helping her find out.
Touching him probably would, however. Her left arm was almost free, and with a little more wiggling she’d have it. She just had to twist sideways and slide it out and then yes, yes, she could try something out. Just something small at first—a brush of her knuckles over his biceps, perhaps.
Then once she’d dared that much, other things became easier. She let that same hand wander up over his shoulder, to that groove she’d wanted to touch. And after she’d danced her fingers over the curves and shapes there, it wasn’t such a big deal to reach over and clasp the side of his face.
She just did it, thinking of how rough his stubble would feel and how firm that jawline was. Would she be able to feel the muscle there, ticking and ticking? She thought so, and a moment later she was proven right. He was clenching so hard she could have probably felt it from across the room.
However, that wasn’t what she took away from it.
Instead, she found herself thinking of how tender she was accidentally being. She’d seen other people do stuff like this, in advermentaries about love-based products. The woman stood in front and closed her eyes, and then reached back a gentle hand to cup her partner’s face.
And that was what she was doing. She was suddenly cupping his face, and somehow her eyes were closed. Her eyes had to be closed, because more than anything she wanted to just experience this for a second. It was making her ache, but the ache was so lovely she never wanted to let it go.
She just wanted to rest here and feel what love might be like, for as long as he would possibly allow. It wasn’t going to be long, she knew. He’d already gone all stiff and still at the feel of her hand, and after she’d slipped into silence she could tell he was holding his breath. In another second or so he was bound to drop her.
Only he didn’t.
Instead, he did what she’d imagined him doing after she’d rubbed him into a frenzy. He twisted her in his arms until she was almost facing him—so rough and sudden her breath caught in her throat. And then just as she was coming to terms with this move, he forced her down onto the floor.
For one heated, unbelievable moment she was sure he was going to fuck her. He looked as if he were going to fuck her. His expression was completely mindless and near feral, eyes dark with desires she could hardly guess at, mouth clamped so tightly shut she couldn’t see the seams. It was just a slash in his face, sharp and mean.
And then there was the way he positioned her. Oh God, the way he positioned her. He actually pinned her to the floor and spread her legs with his thigh—and just in case that wasn’t shocking enough, he finished off with a stupendous view of his erection. His sweatpants just did absolutely nothing to hide what was going on. How could they possibly? His cock was like a raised fist. It was practically punching through the material. Manmade fibers had no chance against that thing.
Nor did she. If he decided to just do it she was never going to be able to stop him, not even if she wanted to. He was a charging bull, primed to demolish everything in his path. She would just have to brace herself for it—and once he’d tugged her pants to her knees she actually did. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, waiting for some terrible, angry, brutal thing.
Then felt his breath ghost warm and soft against her skin.
He kissed her thigh first, which hardly seemed like anything at all. It didn’t feel like hardly anything at all, however. It felt as if he’d just connected her nervous system up to a battery. His hot, wet mouth pressed to a part of her body, and her body bucked. Her teeth clacked shut around her tongue.
She tasted blood, but still he carried on. He kissed higher, as she marveled over the simple fact that he could kiss. Somehow she hadn’t imagined him capable of it. He was so tight-lipped and so mean with his gestures—and yet here he was completely different. He mouthed a greedy path all the way up to the place between her thigh and her cunt, and once there he didn’t pause to be polite.
He licked long and wet over her slit, as though he’d done it a thousand times before. They’d never so much as dropped a peck on each other’s cheeks, but he didn’t seem to care. He just wanted to lap at her pussy until she went insane.
She was already halfway there. Her eyes felt as though they were coming out of her head, and her breathing didn’t sound normal. She was making the kind of sound people did when something was burning them—a sort of frantic, high-pitched hoh-hoh-hoh coupled with a lot of almost touching.
She really, really wanted to put a hand in his hair, but couldn’t quite make herself do it. He might stop if she did, and oh she didn’t want him to stop. He hadn’t even touched her clit yet and it was already too much, each soft, wet lick sending a wave of sensation through her body.
But then he used his fingers to stroke her open, parting the lips of her sex so carefully, so carefully, and whatever had come before seemed weak by comparison. She tried to get away, partly because of the sudden jolt to her nerve endings,
but also because she knew what was coming. Now that he’d really spread everything, he was going to lap over her stiff little bud.
She could tell. She could feel him gearing up to it, in each slow deliberate circle of his finger and every little flicker of his tongue. Any second, any second, she thought, only any second never came. He moved lower instead, dipping down to tease the entrance to her cunt—first with his mouth, and then with his hands. Always tracing shapes and promising so much, but never quite delivering what she needed.
Though she suspected that wasn’t his intention. He wasn’t really holding off to drive her mad. No, no. He was doing it this way—with all of this teasing and tormenting and almost, almost fucking into her clenching pussy—because he was enjoying himself.
He was making a banquet of this. He was trying everything out, one thing at a time, exploring her folds with that same deliberation he used with everything. First he wanted to touch, and then he wanted to taste, and finally he wanted to bury his face in her cunt in so greedy a way she wanted to die. She sobbed to see him do it. She sobbed to feel his hands suddenly grasp at her ass—but only because she understood why he was doing it.
He wanted to pull her tight to him. He wanted to keep her in place while he fucked his tongue into her pussy and licked his way through her slippery slit. And once she was anchored like that, helpless to do anything but gasp and groan and beg him for more…that was when he let her have it.
He lapped over her swollen clit—just once. Just in this slowly rubbing sort of way, with the flat of his tongue. It was barely anything really, if she was being honest about it. She’d had other men touch her much more frantically and fiercely. She’d had them drill at her clit with two fingers, for half an hour.
But none of that had ever made her come the way that one touch did.
She wasn’t even sure if she was ready for it. There seemed to have hardly been any buildup—though maybe buildup wasn’t required when you’d been hovering on some intense plateau of pleasure for about ten minutes. This was just some slightly higher peak, about an inch away from where’d she been a moment ago.
Almost Real Page 8
