I know because it’s exactly why I haven’t taken my eyes from him since we got to his car.
“Come for me,” he says, and at the same time he angles his hips up, drives into me hard and fast, hard enough and fast enough to push me right up to the edge.
“Fuck,” I shout, or maybe I just think it. I’m not sure. The whole world goes white around the edges, and my vision narrows until all I can see is Lark’s face, his expression as he watches me break apart.
The orgasm hits hard enough to steal my breath away, to sing all the way down to my fingertips and toes. But Lark doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate at all. He just keeps going, and just when I think I can’t feel any more, he reaches down between us with one hand, still thrusting into me, and grazes his thumb across my clit.
I cry out, loud enough that anyone passing within a two block radius knows exactly what’s happening here. But I’m past caring about that. Past thinking about anything except the sensations firing through my body, flooding me with pleasure.
Lark finishes a moment later, with a groan that echoes mine, and I watch his eyes flutter shut, his face suddenly open and so, so vulnerable as pleasure hits him, too.
He slumps against me when he’s done, and I keep my legs wrapped around him, fold my arms around his body too. He feels so good like this, pressed fully against me, every inch of our bodies touching.
A distant, far away part of my brain is screaming at me to remember why I’m avoiding him, to pull away, push him back out of my life. But that voice is distant now, and the rest of me is all too happy to ignore it as I let him hold me in his arms, draw me closer to his body.
For now, I think, gazing up into his eyes, I can forget practicality. Forget what I should do, and instead, focus on what I really want.
On who I really want.
14
Cassidy
Images blur behind my closed eyelids. A car door slamming. An apartment door slamming open, with me pinned against it, my legs around a solid, steady torso. Lark’s mouth on mine, on my throat, my collarbone, my chest.
The kitchen counter, where we sent pots and pans flying in our haste for him to set me on top of it and push between my thighs again.
Then the living room couch where we stumbled afterward, still entangled, my lips on him now, tracing my way down the smooth, hard planes of his torso until I reached the fine V that led to between his legs. Kissing every inch of his cock before I so much as licked his length, enjoying the way his shaft clenched and shuddered at my touch, and the way he inhaled his breath between his teeth, sharp and desperate.
I sucked him into my mouth, licked and pulled until he came apart shouting my name.
Then the shower, his bed. Him again, between my thighs, for so long and hard I ached by the end of it, but a pleasant, bone deep kind of ache that I never want to lose.
And now… my eyes detect the pinkish glow of dawn approaching. I’m vaguely aware that wherever I am is warm and comfortable. A lot warmer and more comfortable than my apartment be at this hour of the morning, with its shitty heating system and my thin blanket.
Then, belatedly, I register the sensation of lips on my skin. At my hipbone now, followed by a tongue tracing a searing line across my belly to delve into my navel. It flicks on its way back out, making me shiver and burrow deeper into the blankets around me, the pillow so soft it engulfs half my face when I twist against it.
The lips move lower. Kiss a fine line from my navel down to the shaved clean mound. Then the tongue returns to trace a searing, white hot line along the curve where my legs meet my hips, tracing the crevice.
I moan a little and shift, so I’m lying flat on my back, prone and open. My legs are already parted, but I feel warm hands cup my calves and press them wider apart. I feel the weight of the bed shift beneath my hips, then warm hands slide beneath me to grip my ass. Cupping, more like, almost gently. But so, so warm.
And the tongue again, tracing each of the lips of my pussy in turn, taking it slow. So slow that by the time the tongue presses between the folds of those lips, I’m groaning, my hips arching up off the bed of their own accord. The hands on my ass tighten, pull me farther upward, and then a whole mouth presses against my pussy, wide open and hot, hot, hot.
The tongue traces the full length of my slit, back to front, hesitating just before reaching the throbbing, aching point of my clit. It runs back along my length again, and returns to swirl around my pussy entrance, licking, teasing.
“Please,” I moan through gritted teeth, not even sure if I’m awake right now or dreaming still. Not caring either way.
The tongue presses inside me so, so slowly. I twist against it, try to press upward, thrust my hips against that hot mouth. But the hands shift from my ass up to my hips, pinning me down. In control.
This isn’t my game; it’s his, and I sink back to the mattress, obedient. Enjoying the feeling of relinquishing control over my body, if only for a little while.
His tongue pushes all the way inside my pussy. Then it does a slow twirl inside me, licking, tasting, testing. When the tip of his tongue grazes over my G-spot, I gasp and buck. Then there’s a soft chuckle, hot breath against my wet pussy, and his tongue curls up, the tip digging into that sensitive spot.
It flicks back and forth, back and forth. Slow and strong. So damn sure.
I moan again, longer and louder this time. His tongue keeps moving, right over that spot, circling, pressing, digging. My hands move on their own, slide down over the comforter to clench fistfuls of the blanket. My back arches, my hips dug into the mattress still, and I’m sweating, panting for breath, as the pressure builds behind my navel, my hipbones.
At the last possible second, his tongue slides out of me, and I cry aloud in protest, deprived of the cliff I’d been so close to. But then his tongue flattens to a blade, laps over my clit, a strong, steady stroke that has me panting again right away, my whole body arched and trembling.
He licks me over and over and over until I’m right up at the edge again moments later, and I come with a cry so loud I’m surprised the neighbors don’t pound on the walls to complain.
But then I come back to myself, still trembling, as a warm, smooth body climbs up mine to draw me into his arms, and I remember—I’m not at my apartment, with its dingy, paper-thin walls and my threadbare sheets.
I open my eyes to find Lark gazing down at me, his arms around my waist to cradle me against his naked chest.
Actually, his naked everything. I can feel the hard press of his cock pressed up against my stomach, and it sends a fresh pulse of desire through me, my nerves already on fire from his tongue.
“That’s definitely one way to wake up in the morning,” I murmur, tilting my face toward his to let him kiss me gently.
When we part, he’s grinning, and I can taste myself on his mouth. It doesn’t do anything to help calm my racing pulse or the spiking heat in my veins. “Happy to oblige.” He tucks my head beneath his chin and sighs, his breath stirring my hair. “If I had it my way, you’d wake up like that every morning, Cassidy.”
I tense. Wrapped up like I am against him, of course he notices.
“Stop overthinking,” he murmurs. His lips brush my temple, the edge of my cheek.
I want to listen to him. I want to do just that, to forget about my own concerns and let this moment last a little bit longer.
And, yeah, I want him to fuck me again. I’m still sore from last night, but the ache between my legs is sweet, a muscle-deep sensation that leaves me wanting more. I swear if I clench, I can still feel the outline of his cock inside me. Not to mention his actual cock pressed against my stomach, hard and wanting.
But… “This was a mistake,” I breathe. The words slip out before I can stop them.
Lark pulls back, his eyes unreadable when they catch mine. “What, exactly?”
“Me. Being here. Us.” I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut so I don’t have to watch the hurt that blossoms on his face. “I shouldn’t
have come. Last night was…” Incredible. “Not a good idea.”
“Why do you feel like you have to keep pushing me away?” he says. His hand traces the edge of my jawline. Tucks under my chin and tweaks until I open my eyes. He’s staring at me still with that inscrutable look, like he’s seeing straight through all the walls I keep attempting to throw up and into something vital at my core. “Let me in, Cass. That’s all I’m asking.”
“You want me to let you in?” My voice cracks. “What about you, Lark?”
He draws back, his forehead furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you want me to open up, maybe you need to do the same.” I slide away from him, across the bed. My whole body aches at the separation. But my mind knows it’s the right move. “What really happened with you and Sheryl?” I ask.
And I can see it in his face. The moment his gaze goes from open and curious, to slamming shut. It’s like a wall has come down between us.
And he calls me closed off.
“That’s not relevant to us,” Lark replies.
“It’s relevant to me. I want to know the whole story before anything else happens here.” I gesture in the air between us.
His expression darkens. “You don’t know what you’re asking me to do.”
“I’m asking you to be honest. Is that so hard?”
In response, he pushes the covers back and rolls out of the bed. I try not to watch him go, but it’s a struggle. The man seriously has a perfect ass. Not to mention abs, thighs, cock… I squeeze my eyes shut while he starts tugging on clothing, just to keep myself focused. “I’ve told you, time and again, that Sheryl and I are done. I don’t know why you refuse to believe me, but there’s nothing there anymore. It’s in the past. And I don’t linger in the past, okay? I live in the now, Cass. That’s what I’m focusing on. Here and now.”
“There’s living in the past, and then there’s being willing to talk about it,” I protest, levering myself up onto one elbow. “All I’m asking is for the story, not for you to relive it.”
“Yeah, well, for me it’s the same thing, all right? I can’t talk about it.”
“Can’t or won’t?” I fire back, pushing myself up to standing too. He’s half-dressed now, so I do the same, snatching at my clothes, flung all over the room last night in our haste.
“Either,” Lark replies angrily.
“Fine.” I finish yanking on my jeans and grab my top from a lamp it somehow wound up slung over. “If you can’t open up, then neither will I.” With that, I tug the shirt over my head.
When I emerge on the other side, Lark’s standing in the middle of the room, still only half-dressed, his own shirt dangling from one fist. “Cassidy…” He runs one hand through his hair, and I try not to get distracted at the way his muscles ripple when he does. “Can you just… give me time? To get there, at least? I’m not ready yet, but I hope soon that maybe—”
He breaks off. Probably because I’m already shaking my head and taking slow steps backward toward the door. “Lark, I just… I can’t. Okay? I’m working on myself too right now.” Because he’s right, I do have that wall up. Even if I get the feeling he’s not the guy I can let the wall down around—because I’m pretty sure he would wreck me if I did… I know I need to eventually.
“I need to concentrate on me just now,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
I expect him to call out. To chase me again, the way he’s been doing this whole time. But when I turn around and start toward his apartment door, he lets me go for once. Still, I can’t help stealing one last backward glance when I reach the elevator, just before the doors close behind me.
Lark’s still standing right where I left him in the middle of his bedroom, shirt in one hand. Motionless, as if he’s just been stunned out of motion.
My heart wrenches. But then the elevator doors shut, blocking him from view, and I sink back out of the clouds, down to the street level again.
15
Cassidy
I lie on my back and count the lightbulbs that stretch along the ceiling of this office. I already know there are twenty inset lights, each one dim, but together they provide enough glow to write by. At least, so I assume, based on the scribbling sound coming from the chair adjacent to my couch.
“Tell me more about Norman,” my therapist says, her voice low and unassuming.
My throat tightens anyway. “Do I have to?” I murmur, still squinting at those lights.
“You don’t have to do anything, Cassidy,” she replies, although not before I hear her scribbling another quick note. “But if your goal, as you just told me, is to learn how to open up to possible relationships in the future, and you believe that this is what’s blocking you, then I think it would be helpful to practice talking about it with someone neutral, don’t you?”
I sigh. Mostly because what she’s saying makes a lot of sense. Unfortunately. “It… we dated for two years. He was the one who pursued me, hard. I wasn’t sure, but…” I shake my head. “He had this way of convincing me to do things. Things I didn’t always want to.”
“Are we talking sexually?” my therapist replies, her voice still careful and even.
“Sometimes.” I shift against the couch. The lights, which earlier seemed so dim, now seem way too bright. “Not as much that though.” I lever myself upright to look at her. “Just, everything was all about what he wanted. All the time. He wanted me to dress up, so I dressed up. He wanted to go to a show, so we went to the show. He wanted to go out to dinner, so we went… He never asked what I wanted. And the few times I tried to ask, he’d flip out at me.” I bite my lower lip, remembering. “He used to tell me that…”
When my voice falters, my therapist leans forward, crossing her arms on her lap. “It’s all right, Cassidy,” she says. I don’t realize I’m crying until she passes me a tissue.
After she does, I just sit there holding it for a minute, confused. Like I’ve come unmoored for a minute. “He told me that since he made all our money, it was his decision.” I breathe in slowly through my nose, and out through my mouth, the way I’ve been practicing over the last couple of weeks, coming here. “And if I argued or anything, he’d accuse me of trying to use him for his money, being a gold-digger. But I wasn’t, I swear I didn’t even care, sometimes I used to wish we’d lose all the money just so he’d act normal.”
“You understand that that is manipulative behavior, don’t you, Cassidy?” my therapist murmurs.
I bob my head. “But I just felt…” I tug at the tissue so hard it comes apart between my fingers. So I ball it into my fist instead. “I felt like I’d never find anyone better, so.” I clear my throat, scowling. “He knew it, too. He played on my fears. He used to tell me I was ugly, annoying, shrill. He said no other guy would put up with my bullshit, and I believed him.”
“It sounds to me like you’re describing negging,” my therapist replies. “That’s a tactic used by manipulative people, to do exactly what you’re saying. To keep your self-esteem low enough that you’d stay with him. But it’s important to unearth those beliefs and confront them now, so you can unlearn them.”
I find myself nodding, my throat still tight, my eyes stinging with unshed tears.
My therapist sighs and shifts in her seat. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today, Cassidy. But I’m very proud of all the progress you’re making. This isn’t easy. Doing this work. I hope you know that and can feel proud of yourself for confronting all this, too.”
“Sure,” I breathe, my voice barely there. I’m barely even listening anymore. I’m lost in memories. Of nights out with Norman, how he’d parade me around on his arm, talking over me, introducing me to his friends but never allowing me to speak or have an opinion of my own.
I was just a trophy for him. A trophy he called ugly and overweight and shrill, in order to keep me trapped. It took so long for me to free myself from him. And to be honest, I forgot how bad it was, after. I was just so relieved to be on my own
again, I didn’t stop to think about how badly I’d been manipulated, how much he’d lied to me.
I should be over this, I keep thinking, and I am. I’m over him, anyway. But the behaviors I learned—the way I hide myself, the way I defer to everyone else in the room… that’s taking longer to forget.
Across from me, my therapist is smiling, reaching out to offer a hand. I force myself to stand up and shake it, plastering on a smile.
“Thanks,” I tell her. And I try to believe what she’s telling me. I try to believe that eventually, this will get easier.
At the very least, I refuse to wind up like Lark. I’m going to learn how to talk about my past. How to open up with the right guy. The right guy, who won’t be him.
Who won’t touch me the way he does. Who won’t keep me up all night, tossing and turning, unable to get images of him out of my head. The feeling of his body pressing me into a mattress, the sensation of his tongue running down the curve of my neck, his hands tracing the arches of my hips…
Fuck.
I force him out of my mind, as usual, and say goodbye to my therapist, before I edge out into the hallway. The lights out here are even brighter, and I squint against them, feeling the same way I usually do after a session—emotionally drained, but a little bit lighter, too.
I try to hold onto that last part as I stride through the hallways of the building and wait for the elevator down to the ground floor. But as I’m stepping out of the building into the parking lot, taking a deep breath of the muggy, pre-storm air, the sky overhead dark despite the fact that it’s only the middle of the day—my calm is immediately shattered.
Best of Penny Wylder: Boss Romance Page 27
