by Geneva Lee
It all led to one painfully obvious conclusion: I was bad news.
I’d almost lost Smith last night. I’d felt his blood pulsing against the palm of my hand. It had been a miracle that he’d survived, and I doubted I’d be granted a second one.
My grip on the marble counter slipped, and I barely caught myself as I slumped to the floor. Apparently I was out to set a record for sudden, tearful breakdowns. But even though I swiped at them and took deep breaths, the tears kept coming. It seemed like I should have run out by now, but the events of the last week had tapped some emotional wellspring deep within me. There was a possibility I might never stop crying. All the emotion I’d held back, all the fear I’d nearly kept in check, had been released, and for the first time, I bore the full brunt of it. It choked me. It smothered me.
It felt as I’d been forced under water, life itself was drowning me, and the person who was supposed to be my life jacket was drowning alongside me.
Together. When you love someone you make it through the bad shit together. That’s how love works. That’s why love works.
Smith’s words from earlier floated back to me. They gave me the strength to pull myself up and the courage to walk back into the darkness.
Smith stirred on the bed, and then his husky voice, still thick with sleep, broke the silence. “Good morning, beautiful.”
“It’s night,” I said with a sniff.
“It’s hard to think straight when I wake up to you.” He rolled over and extended his hand.
I didn’t need any further prompting. Dropping beside him, I molded my body against his. The darkness hid my tears, but he found them immediately, brushing them from my cheeks. Smith tilted my chin up, and as my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he came into clearer focus. The first time I’d seen him, I’d nearly dropped my knickers. Now I learned to not bother wearing any entirely, but I’d also discovered that under his brutal beauty, behind his piercing green eyes, beneath that chiseled jawline, there was a masculinity so powerful it stole my breath away. Because Smith Price was a protective man as well as an honorable one. He wasn’t afraid to fight, and he’d chosen to fight for me.
“I don’t want you to cry,” he murmured.
I swallowed and buried my face against his chest. “Can’t help it.”
“Maybe I need to find something else for you to do.” His breath was hot against my ear. “Scream? Moan?”
“You aren’t allowed to…” I couldn’t even bring myself to say it. The idea that we couldn’t have sex was almost unthinkable even when I didn’t desperately need the intimacy. Smith’s possessive nature made me feel secure, which I needed more than ever.
“Would it make you feel better to come, beautiful? Because, God knows I need to claim your tight little body. It’s all I can think about.” Past the sexy gruffness in his voice, I heard need that sent my core clenching in anticipation. “Do you need that, too?”
“But we—”
“I don’t need my dick to fuck you. I don’t need it to make you come. Besides that, are you questioning my control?”
A tremble rippled over my skin as I breathed, “No.”
“I didn’t think so.” He released his hold on me and sat up in bed. “Turn on the light.”
I scrambled onto my knees to flip on the bedside lamp.
“Too many clothes.” He spoke each word distinctively, allowing the sentiment to settle over me.
I tugged my t-shirt, the lone item I was wearing, over my head, but I couldn’t resist raising an eyebrow. “A t-shirt is too much now?”
“Anything that covers those perfect tits is too much.” Relaxing against the pillows, he folded his arms behind his head.
I knelt beside him, my knees sinking into the mattress, and waited. Smith loved to put me on display and test my patience. Probably because I had none. We both knew that I’d be begging for it within minutes.
“On your back,” he commanded in a low voice. “I want to see my perfect cunt.”
A strangled moan slipped out as I lounged onto my elbows and spread my legs. I craved his possession—I needed it.
“That’s right,” he coaxed. “You know that’s my body. I own it, don’t I?”
“Yes,” I whimpered, wondering when he would finally touch me, but not daring to ask.
“I’m so goddamn hard, beautiful. Do you remember the first night you gave yourself to me?”
He didn’t wait for a response. We both knew that was an unforgettable evening. It had been the first time I had experienced his particular brand of dominance, something I never knew I wanted until he gave me my first taste.
“You fucked my car,” he growled, his hand stroking the rigid length straining his boxers. “It was my most priceless possession before I found you. Now there’s no comparison. Do you know why you’re priceless?”
My throat ached at the raw sensuality in his tone, but I shook my head.
“I didn’t have to buy you,” he said. “You gave yourself to me.”
I groaned, my hand sliding between my legs, unable to contain myself.
“Did I tell you that you could touch yourself?” he asked quietly.
I shook my head, fighting the urge to press my knees together to relieve the demanding pulse.
“You aren’t going to touch yourself,” he informed me. “You’re going to fuck yourself for me—hard.”
Smith’s hand grasped my knee and held it. The heat of his skin on mine was enough to release a tiny quake of pleasure. I moved my hands lower, spreading my folds with one as I began to urgently knead my hungry clit.
“Show me how badly you want it, beautiful,” he ordered, his voice deepening. “Fuck your hand.”
I slipped my index finger in my hole, gasping as it tightened in response.
“More. That’s not a request.”
Biting my lip, I pushed another finger inside. My hips circled against the pressure building in my core, but I didn’t dare come. I wanted to make it last. I wanted to push myself, because I knew it would please him.
“I’ve seen your pretty pink pussy stretched over my cock. I know how much it can take.”
A third finger joined the party and I bucked against it.
“Do you fuck yourself like this?” he asked.
I shook my head, even though it was becoming harder to concentrate. If I wasn’t careful, I’d lose control and then this delicious reprieve would be over far too soon. I doubted most women fingered themselves when they masturbated. On the off chance I’d ever need to pleasure myself again solo, I might have to add it to my repertoire.
“That’s why you’re scared,” he teased gently as his palm caressed my inner thigh. “You’re holding back, so I’m going to have to take over. Although I enjoyed your show.”
I drew my hand back automatically, nearly coming as cool air hit the sensitized spot. Smith hooked an arm around my leg and dragged me closer, chuckling as I squirmed. His palm pressed me down to the bed. “Be a good girl and hold still.”
I resisted the urge to scream at him. He’d proven he was more patient than I was. As much as he wanted to watch me orgasm, he could wait for it—and probably enjoy every damn second of agony. I didn’t have that kind of self-control.
“You got yourself nice and wet for me.” He stroked along the length of my slippery seam as he praised me. “I’m going to test you, beautiful, and it’s going to hurt but then it’s going to feel so good.”
This was his way of asking permission. Smith didn’t use a safe word. He didn’t ask. He informed. I supposed that if I had an issue, I was meant to say something. I never had.
I never would.
Whatever he would give me, I would take with a please, a thank you, and an earth-shattering orgasm in between.
“You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” he promised as the first finger glided roughly inside me. “You need that, don’t you? A reminder that everything is okay, and I’m going to make sure that you feel me with every step you take.”
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nbsp; I cried out as he shoved another two fingers in my entrance. The sensitive tissue stretched as he plunged them in and out, but with each thrust, they slid in more smoothly.
“I’m not going to stop,” he growled.
Tears smarted my eyes as a fourth finger worked its way in, but despite the tingle of fire, pain quickly began to shift into pleasure. The drops leaking down my cheeks were joined by a chorus of gasps and screams as Smith fucked me with his hand.
“Do you like that?” he muttered, his own breathing coming in pants as he watched me unfolding. He sat up, twisting his hand around and holding my belly to the bed. “What do you want, beautiful?”
“Fuck me,” I sobbed. Own me. Control me. Ruin me.
The languid speed of his movement ratcheted up just enough to send my body shaking as my muscles coiled tightly and then his thumb nudged against the tight ring of my ass. It popped past the tight circle of nerves and pushed me over the edge.
I arched up, held down only by his hold on me, as my climax gushed violently over his palm. When I fell back, my muscles spasmed and I breathed in short staccato bursts, unable to catch my breath.
“That was so goddamn hot,” Smith whispered as he released me. “You’ve never been that wet for me, beautiful. I’m going to need a taste.”
My head flopped from side to side. There was no way I was capable of movement. It was entirely possible I would die in this position on this very bed—and it would be a brilliant way to go.
“Not how it works,” he reprimanded me. “Get your ass off the bed. I want to taste your pussy.”
I tapped into whatever reserve of energy my body clung to for emergencies and rolled onto my stomach. With shaky arms, I crawled up next to him.
“The doctor said I needed to rest for a few days,” he reminded me with a cocky smirk, “so I’m going to need you to come a little closer.”
His hands guided me onto my knees, drawing one over his upper chest until I was straddling him. Each hot exhale from his mouth sent a flutter dancing along my overwhelmed nerves, and then before I could process what he was thinking, he gripped my ass and slammed my sex over his face. His tongue swept along the wet folds as I heard the snap of elastic. Smith’s groan vibrated through me and I fell forward, grabbing onto the headboard as he fucked me with his tongue. Despite the haze clouding my brain, I zeroed in on the distinctive slap of his hand roughly working his cock to the root.
He had his face buried in my cunt while he was getting himself off. It was too much—too hot. My hips began to circle his mouth, grinding against him, seeking release. He owned me, but I was claiming him—marking him as my own. Muffled grunts preceded the first jet of his seed hitting my bare ass. Just the sensation of its heat dribbling down my skin was enough to send me soaring. I came on his mouth, each wave of pleasure met with a spurt of his own.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one staking my claim tonight.
Smith carefully helped me off of him and then slowly got up. “Don’t move.”
I stayed upright, still clinging to the headboard as he circled the foot of the bed. “You look so lovely. It’s giving me ideas of all the things I want to do that ass.”
“Starting with cleaning it up?” I suggested, flashing a coy grin over my shoulder.
He laughed as he disappeared into the bathroom, leaving me to fantasize about what exactly he had in mind. But when he returned, he cleaned me up and drew me into his arms, his lips whispering promises across my skin as he lulled me to sleep in the security of his arms.
Chapter 8
Stuart Hall grew less friendly as the days passed. By the end of the second week, my bruises and cuts were barely visible. But the other scars lingered, and with each new day spent under my mother’s critical eye, I endured new wounds. Smith had taken over my father’s study—the last place I wanted to spend time—so I had chosen to pursue a childhood passion: riding.
I’d made the mistake of using my mother’s saddle early on, so she’d served a walnut torte at dinner that had nearly sent me into anaphylactic shock. Now I was careful to keep the opposite schedule of my mother, heading out in the early afternoon and returning to supper. I’d begun to think of it as the calm before the storm. A joke I might have shared with Smith if he hadn’t made it his personal mission to spend every waking hour holed up on the computer.
The countryside around Somerset had suffered an early snowfall, and between that and the mist that clung to the ground near perpetually, this afternoon’s ride had a dreamlike quality, which distracted me from the latest addition to my list of things to worry about. I’d avoided the woods on the far west edge of the property, opting to climb the rolling hills that lay between my family’s estate and the neighboring Betford House. Today a plume of smoke rose from the chimney, surprising me. It had gone unused for many years, but either it had been sold or rented. Like many of us, the family had hung onto it long past the point of financial viability. I made a point to ask Belinda about its new inhabitants. As the sun peaked in the sky, fresh snow fell in downy tufts, clinging to my lashes.
“What do you think, Tuesday?” I leaned forward and brushed the snow from his mane before patting him. “Should we head back?”
Snowfall and fog could be a dangerous combination to an unskilled rider, and while I fancied myself pretty damn capable, it had been years since I had ridden on a regular basis. Urging Tuesday into a full gallop, we raced back toward the stables. His hooves kicked up the powdery snow along the way, leaving a fresh trail behind us. But soon snowflakes were falling so heavily that I couldn’t see more than a few meters in front of me. When I saw the outline of the stables, I barely stopped before plowing directly into Smith.
He was wearing my father’s long coat, his hands shoved into the pockets. I’d been too young when my father died to know if the coat had looked that way on him, but I doubted it. It was an industrial piece, meant to protect from the harshest of conditions and yet it cut in Smith’s trim waist, highlighting his broad shoulders and well-hewn arms. But whether it was due to the distance I’d sensed from him or the disapproval written across his face, I wasn’t interested in giving into my carnal desires.
Swinging myself off the horse, I grabbed his reins and led Tuesday past him. Inside it was warm, the space well insulated to protect the valuable animals my mother loved so. I’d long suspected she would rather have them sleep under her roof than her own daughter. Tugging off my cap and allowing my hair to tumble free, I mused that I’d be warm, at least.
“Dashing off into a blizzard.” Smith’s voice was low with rage.
Whipping around, I shrugged before returning to the saddle. “I spent holidays here. I’ve ridden in the snow plenty of times.”
“That doesn’t make it safe.” He was fuming. There had been few times where I had seen my husband this upset. One of the last times I’d wound up in a leash and collar. I could only be so lucky this time. His interest in the computer had long since replaced his interest in my body.
“I returned when it became hazardous.” I brushed past him with the saddle. He caught my wrist on my way back.
“It’s not simply the snow, beautiful. I didn’t know where you were.”
“If you paid any attention, you would know that I go riding at this time every day,” I informed him in a cool voice.
His green eyes narrowed into slits. “We don’t need to advertise that you’ve returned home, Belle.”
So that was what this was about. Hammond. Everything came back to Hammond. Even after two weeks of security—two weeks of dealing with my irrational, hateful mother—it was still Hammond haunting us.
“Maybe I should go and cover my tracks. Hand me that broom,” I said in a mocking voice.
“If you don’t watch your tone, I’ll swat you with it.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I warned him. “I might get attached. It will have been the most action I’ve seen in weeks.”
“Are you finished?” he asked flatly.
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p; Not even remotely. But I didn’t trust myself to say any more. Maybe it was stupid to hold on to hope that this was a momentary blip. After all we had been through, and everything we’d recently given up, we were both bound to be stressed. It was what I told myself at least. I nodded, shooting him a grim smile, before turning on my heel and heading back to the main house.
Smith followed me, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me to him. “I know you like to provoke me.”
“I thought you liked it, too.” I tried to sound detached, but it was hard to remain unmoved when he brought up memories from the past.
“Your safety is more important than—”
“My happiness? My freedom?” It felt a little petulant to shout at him, but since I’d spent the last two weeks living under my mother’s thumb, I was bound to regress a bit.
“Than your pride,” he continued in a firm voice. “I don’t like the idea of you out riding alone. Sooner or later someone is going to come looking for us here.”
“We can’t live in a locked room.” I’d brought him here to recuperate and wait it out. Not to go into permanent hiding.
“Ask me to go with you,” he suggested, brushing the melting remnants of a snowflake off my nose.
“You’re busy,” I pointed out, hoping he would open up to me about what he was doing.
“I’m never too busy for you.”
It was reassuring to hear, even if it didn’t answer any questions.
“Your lips are turning purple,” he said, a warm smile carving across his face. “We should get you inside.”
“Maybe you should warm them up first.” The request was breathy and hopeful. It made me feel girlish to stand here in the midst of falling snow and ask a boy to kiss me, as though I’d been transported back to my youth. But this wasn’t a childhood crush or my college fiancé. This was my husband, and the look he gave me wiped away any girly daydreams I had.
