Fracture

by Amanda K. Byrne

  “No.” Dammit, I was going for strong. Not breathy with need.

  “Too bad.” He takes my mouth and a searing heat zips through me like a wildfire. Yes. I need this. Need him, need his hands clamped on my hips, need his lips and tongue and oh god his tongue. When he drags his mouth away, I moan and tip my head back to give him better access to my neck, biting my lip when his tongue completes a particularly wicked maneuver at the fragile spot under my ear.

  Lacing my fingers through his hair, I plunder his mouth as he does mine, wanting him to be as crazy with this need as I am. It swirls between us, a whirlpool threatening to drag us down, and his hand slips under my sweatshirt and finds my breast.

  I want to know what his skin feels like against my mouth. I want to taste every inch of him, and then go back and do it again. I want him under me, over me, inside me, making me forget, making me live.

  The heat of his hand and his mouth is gone as quickly as it came on. I stare at him, confused, dazed with lust. He stopped. Why did he stop? Especially when I can tell how ready he is?

  He slides his hands down my thighs and unwinds me from his waist, dropping me on my feet. “Warm enough now?”

  And he limps out of the room, cast thunking with every step.

  Chapter Eleven

  That’s it. Twice now he’s kissed me, wound me up, then dropped me like I’m diseased. He’s not getting away with it this time. I storm into the living room. He’s lowering himself to the couch, booted foot hovering in the air over the coffee table. “Where the fuck do you get off? You think you can be that callous and expect me to just…let you do it whenever you want?” I fist my hands on my hips and glare at him.

  “You know, your mouth says one thing, but your legs…” He stares pointedly at my bare legs.

  My ragged emotions coalesce and settle on one singular feeling: anger. Red edges my vision. The world narrows to the space around his head, lighting it up with bright gold fury. “You. You fucking bastard. Is that how you treat women? Like tissues? Use once and toss them away?” Even as anger catches the embers of desire he’d stirred, I realize I’ve got a choice: I can follow through on my thoughts from the cemetery, or I can back off.

  My body overrules my brain and says go, propelling me forward. I stalk over to the couch and straddle him, determined to leave him wanting this time. I'll do the touching. I'll rule this kiss, these fleeting caresses. Fisting my hands in his sweatshirt, my eyes meet his and my heart sputters to a halt. The intensity on his face is frightening, air sticking in my lungs. He pushes his face close to mine. “Yes, that’s how I treat them. Most of the time, because I’m not around and that’s the only way I can get it through their fluffy heads. But you — Do you have any have any idea how badly I want you? You’re not ready. I’ll break you. Tiny little pieces of Nora.”

  His hissed words hammer at the fog cloaking my brain. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play stupid now.” Cupping a hand around the nape of my neck, he kisses me. Hot. Possessive. There’s a claiming in this kiss that wasn’t there before. I am his, his toy, his to use, his to discard, for as long as he’ll have me. He’ll smash my defenses so there’s no use putting them up again. His tongue finds every tiny crevice in my mouth. Stroking, enticing, cajoling my response from me.

  The first tremor works its way up my spine. Another harsh kiss, taking me deeper. Another tremor. He breaks the kiss, his forehead propped against mine. “Tell me you were ready for that. Make me believe you, and I’ll take you to bed right now.” He strokes a hand down the back of my neck and eases away, his gaze searching and sober. “What do you want, lass?”

  The potent, liquid darkness of his mouth…soon. Maybe. I’m afraid if I wait I’ll talk myself out of it. I’m afraid this is the wrong choice, that my heart and my brain and my body won’t accept him.

  Only one way to find out.

  I scrape my teeth over his lower lip and thrust my tongue into his mouth, hoping he won’t notice how badly I’m trembling, that he’ll think I’m shaky with unquenched wants. I have to know the difference, the way his skin feels under my hands, how his broad shoulders and long, tall body fit with mine. “Let me touch you,” I beg.

  He groans. “Christ.” He jerks me forward, hands streaking under the hem of my sweatshirt as his mouth covers mine in a bruising punishment of a kiss. The fierce possession I’d felt earlier is magnified a hundred thousand times, and the doubts slip away like water down the drain. Hands roaming along my waist and up to span my ribs, he palms my breasts and I gasp into his mouth, his touch searing through me.

  “Take it off.” Pulling at his sweatshirt, unable to get it over his head, I wish my hands were strong enough to rip it apart. He lets go of me long enough to drag it off, and I’m rewarded with the sight of his lean, muscled chest, the bruises faint splotches on his skin. Warm, almost hot to the touch.

  My brain shuts down. Just completely stops processing higher thought, and all I can think is want. I am laden in it, drowning dying gasping with want. And what I want more than anything right now is to feel his skin against mine.

  Whipping off my sweatshirt, I press myself to him, clad only in my underwear. I’m no longer cold. The shakes are still there, growing more and more violent. Control’s slipping beyond my grasp and instead of making one last desperate lunge for it, I fling it away and attack his mouth, his jaw, his neck, fingernails scoring a trail over his abdomen.

  I am tiny in his arms and strong as titanium, ready for the next assault. He launches it, two–pronged with little finesse. An arm around my waist, bowing me up, presenting my nipples for his eager mouth. His free hand shoves into my panties and finds my clit, rubbing in steady, smooth circles.

  “That’s it,” he mumbles against my breast. He bites down on the sensitive tip and tugs, drawing a sharp cry from me. “Responsive, aren’t we? Let’s try this.” Without warning, he plunges a finger into me, and I arch back, lost to him, my hips mindlessly jerking before following the slow pump of his hand. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

  The words are a bare whisper, hard to hear over the roaring in my head. He strokes his fingers in and out, in and out, faster, dragging me closer, higher, that bright, shiny orgasm within reach. Don't stop don't stop oh please oh please dear god don't stop don't stop don'tdon'tdon't.

  He stops.

  He doesn’t stop for long. Cursing, shaking, he yanks me up with one hand as he pushes at his sweats with the other, freeing his cock. Oh. Mine. That is mine. I scoot back on his lap and grip him at the base, stroking upward. The head is slick, and I spread the moisture around, leaning forward to kiss him.

  Fabric rips as he shoves his hand back into my panties. His hips twitch and lift, and I match my rhythm to his, the edge of release right in front of me and still beyond my reach. I give him a final stroke and let him go, hitching my thumbs into the waistband of my underwear and pushing them down. They get caught around my knees. I get them to my ankles. Good enough. Crazed with need, body straining for release, I glide my hand along his length, squeeze once, and shift my hips over him.

  “Nora, condoms—”

  I drop down. He splits me in two, it’s been so long. There’s a stitch of pain deep inside. I’ve gone too fast, but I don’t care. Circling my hips, I lean forward and cover his mouth with mine, sucking on his tongue as our bodies find a rhythm that suits us, suits the frenzy screaming to get out.

  Grinding on him tears a whimper from me as the first waves of pleasure roll in. Rocking forward and back, forward and back, his thumb in my mouth, trailing over my breasts, heading south. I groan at the touch. “More.” I pick up the pace, place my hand over his, show him how I want it. Fast. Almost painful. “Pinch me,” I beg. “Harder.” Things are getting slipperier. Hotter. Tighter. I trail the tip of my tongue up the side of his neck and suckle a kiss below his ear, smashing his hand between our bodies. “Again.” Lacing my fingers through his hair, I place kiss after kiss along his jaw, his throat, raining them alo
ng the line of his shoulder. The sensations are pulling me under — the harsh sound of our breathing, the salt of his skin under my tongue, the sultry press of his lips at my throat, his clever fingers manipulating me and egging me on. Everything is white and getting brighter, shining silver as we move against each other.

  “Nora.”

  “Don’t stop,” I whisper. His eyes have darkened and gone mad. “Don’t stop. Too close. Too close to stop.” I cradle his head in my hands and kiss him, his lips on mine completing the circuit.

  “Nora. Lass,” he whispers against my mouth. “I’m not going to—”

  I splinter, crash into a thousand tiny pieces, the soundless scream locked in my throat as everything implodes. Through the flood of release I’m aware of Declan’s hands on my hips, clamping down as he thrusts upward. A shout. One last smashing wave of orgasm, and I’m limp and sated.

  He gathers me close, tucking my head into the crook of his neck. Our ragged breathing is thunderous in the aftermath, competing with the heavy, speeding thump of my heart. He presses a kiss to my temple. “Good thing I didn’t try that earlier. Might not have lived.” He strokes a hand down my back.

  I chuckle. “I’d have revived you.”

  Nap. After stupendous sex, one needs a nap. I yawn and snuggle closer. The hand stroking over my back pauses. “If you’d waited two seconds longer, I could have told you there are condoms in my camera bag.”

  His words penetrate at the same time I become aware of the wet warmth seeping across my thighs. Scrambling off his lap, I glance down in horror. This is what happens when I think of bad ideas. I act on them, and make monumentally stupid decisions.

  Unable to look at the horrible mistake on my couch, I stumble away and into the bedroom, then the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. The damning evidence of our frantic fucking trickles farther down my legs. Flipping on the shower, I duck under the water and arch away from the stinging cold drops. I deserve the cold. A fair punishment for not taking the time to think.

  Though just because I’m punishing myself doesn’t mean I can’t be quick about it.

  I lather up and rinse off, the soap sluicing away the scent of sex and Declan. And I immediately wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d taken my time, explored him, experimented. Used a condom.

  Ryan and I hadn’t used one for the last two years we were together, the only barrier between us and an unexpected and mostly unwanted pregnancy the IUD I’d had inserted. We’d wait each month for my period to come, anxious and trying to hide it. It took a few months, but we finally accepted there wouldn’t be kids until we were ready, and the sex had gotten even better after that. The hindrance of having to carry a condom around when we dared a quick fuck in the park or in the shower or in an elevator was gone.

  I shut off the water, chilled enough my blood is like ice under my skin. There’s no point in regretting what happened. Not just that we’d had mostly unprotected sex, but that we’d had it at all. I couldn’t, really, not when it felt so good. Not when I want to do it again. And again. And again. Not when I want to let him drag me off to bed and never get up, let him pin me to the mattress, tangle in the sheets.

  The tiny voice telling me sex is supposed to mean something isn’t as easy to ignore. Especially since, with Declan, there isn’t much hope it ever will mean anything. I don’t doubt he was telling the truth when he told Zlata about the women in his life. His crass and hurtful words lent too much credence to it. And I’d left my days of one night stands and fuck buddies behind when I met Ryan.

  A temporary lapse, then. Now that we’d gotten it out of our systems, we could control ourselves. I’d help Declan out until he’d healed enough to go back to his flat, and everything would be fine.

  Declan is still on the couch when I come out, though he’s pulled up his sweats. “Bathroom’s yours, if you want to take a shower.” He gives me a stiff nod and gets to his feet, avoiding my gaze as he walks to the bedroom.

  He returns as I’m making some tea. His hair is damp, and he’s clad in jeans and a sweater. “Couple things.” I shoot him a questioning glance. He holds up a finger. “One: I’ve never gone without a condom before. I might not be one for a relationship, but I’m always careful. You?”

  “I had an IUD put in a few years ago. An intrauterine device,” I explain. “It’s a form of birth control. I haven’t been with anyone like that other than Ryan.” I don’t bother telling him I haven’t had sex since Ryan died. That’s pretty much a given.

  He studies me for another moment before holding up another finger. “Two: if you think that was a mistake, you tell me now, because I’m going to take advantage of you any chance I get.

  “Three: you don’t belong here. You’re coming with me when I’m leaving. Four,” he continues, ignoring my shaking head, “no more sleeping on the couch. You sleep in the bed, next to me, regardless of whether we keep fucking.” He turns toward the living room. “Ismael said something about a football match. Surprised anyone still has TV reception these days. I’ll be back later.”

  Space. However he phrases it, it’s distance, and it hurts and it doesn’t. I struggle to match his nonchalance, throat aching with the effort. I manage to push one side of my lips up in a smirk. “Don’t try to hobble home drunk.”

  His teeth flash in a grin. “Worrying about me? How sweet.” He disappears from view, his next words preceded by the front door opening. “I’ll see you later.”

  Will I? Despite his words, I’ve never felt more uncertain in my life. Wobbly. We’d be better off not repeating the incident on the couch. The harshness of war hasn’t changed my outlook on romance; I want the hearts and flowers, the rainbows to go with my thunderstorms. Ryan gave me all of those and more. I never thought I’d want them again. I don't want them again. I’ll never get them from Declan.

  His promise to take me with him? How’s he going to manage that, when he can barely take care of himself?

  I putter around, making myself scrambled eggs and toast for dinner because I can. I’m restless and tired and unable to concentrate. We finished The Master and Margarita and, after some heated arguing, agreed on another book to read, George Eliot’s Middlemarch. I’d wanted to read it ever since I’d seen the BBC miniseries eons ago, and had the fun idea of reading a section, then watching it. It was one of the DVDs I’d brought with me. Declan declared it boring and only gave in when I threatened bodily harm. We hadn’t started reading yet.

  I could read it anyway. It’s not like we have to read together. I’ve got plenty of other reading material for him to choose from.

  The flat feels empty without him.

  I settle for rewatching a silly romantic comedy on my laptop and drowning my confusion in vodka, swiped from Ismael’s stash, the shots interspersed with the chocolates from Cristian. Over a week has passed since Declan took up a spot in my life, jerking me out of my grief–induced slumber. I want to rewind, want to find the strength to walk away instead of letting him clutch my hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world.

  Angry, I shut off the laptop, put the vodka back in the freezer, and make my way into the bedroom. I change the sheets and hunt up a pair of Ryan’s boxers to pair with my sleep shirt and climb under the covers.

  Cold. I am so cold. Cold and alone and lost.

  It’s sometime later that I’m woken by the mattress shifting. He’s here, in my bed, close enough to touch. Close enough to hold me and wrap me in his strength and tell me I’m not the only one who isn’t sure what’s supposed to happen next in this scary new life.

  I tense, waiting for him to move. Willing him to.

  He doesn’t.

  So I huddle on my corner of the mattress and pray for sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Explain to me again why you're going there? What, the information in Carnegie Library isn't good enough for you?”

  Ryan's laugh was a full-bodied thing, his body vibrating around me as he held me in his arms. “It's not that, babe. It's the resourc
es plus the environment. The country's stable enough, but some of their neighbors … And Russia … Damn. Firsthand experience.”

  In Ryan–logic it made perfect sense. In other people logic … crap. It still made sense. “You'll be gone for a year?”

  The flickering lights glowed around us as candle flames danced, blanketing the room in shadows and warmth. His arms tightened. “We’ll be gone for a year. You can't let me go by myself. Who's going to make sure I eat? And shower?”

  I managed a laugh around the lump in my throat. “Are you sure it'll work? I mean, quitting my job isn't a big deal, but how are you so certain the funding will come through for two people?” His assurances his housing allowance would cover both of us battled with my doubt that it wouldn't because we weren't married.

  He kissed the curve of my neck and rolled away. His bedside table drawer scraped open and shut, and then he was back, surrounding me once more. He handed me a piece of paper. “Written confirmation, as my lady requested.”

  The letter did, indeed, state his housing allowance was for the two of us, and my stomach calmed, my heart squishing with joy and love that he'd go that extra distance for me. How had I gotten so damn lucky?

  “And if anyone has any doubts, this should set them straight.” He reached around me again and held out his hand. It was shaking so badly I grabbed his wrist to steady it, and the candlelight caught and flickered on what he was holding up between two fingers.

  A ring.

  A shiny, lovely ring.

  “You're mine, lass. For as long as I want you in my bed.”

  What the — I squirmed around until I was facing him. Instead of the smirk I'd expected, Declan's face was intense and possessive. Frightening, that intensity. His hands more so. He skimmed one over my hip and cupped my ass, shifting me closer. His words were a soft caress on my lips as his mouth brushed over mine. “You don't belong here.”

  God, that hurts.

  That dream, that memory of Ryan’s proposal, perverted by the intrusion of Declan and his arrogance. It’s all the more insulting for the ghost of the heavy warmth of Ryan cradling me in his arms.