I’m incapable of making a sound as my body locks up, gripped by the sheer force of the orgasm that hits me. It feels like I’m slamming into a brick wall.
Zeth growls deep in his throat as I writhe against him; he holds onto my wrists, stopping me from reaching out to touch him. I want to so badly, but I can tell by the firm grip of his hand that he doesn’t want me to.
“Fuck, your body looks incredible like that. All stretched out and long, with your arms over your head, ” he says, his voice deep and filled with promises. I’m still coming, synapses snapping and firing blindly in my head as he stoops to take one of my nipples in his mouth. He licks and sucks at me, squeezing my nipple in-between his teeth as I squirm, trying to catch my breath.
“Are you ready for me, angry girl? Do you want me inside you? Is that what you want?”
I nod my head, burying my face in his shoulder as he continues to work his fingers inside me. Zeth doesn’t wait for me to regain my voice; he accepts my nodding as all the permission he needs. He’s inside me a second later, strong, hard body between my legs, his hands pulling my thighs up and around his waist. This is normally where he would fuck me until I can’t see straight. I’m expecting it, holding my breath, waiting for it, and yet it doesn’t happen. Opening my eyes, my heart still charging beneath my ribcage, I find Zeth staring down at me with a look akin to complete awe on his face. He just shakes his head, half smiling as he begins to move inside me.
It’s torturous. Slow. Purposeful and intense. I’ve never experienced anything like it. And the whole time, Zeth doesn’t look away. He holds me in his gaze as he fills me, carefully bringing me back to the point of frenzy. My body is crying out for him to sink himself deeper, harder, faster inside me, but my head knows that’s not what this moment is right now. I’m too scared to even admit what this moment is.
Zeth’s hands stroke my body as we move together, and it’s almost as if I can feel it happening. This is more than just our bodies connecting. This is something else entirely.
When we come, we come together, and it’s silent. Zeth wraps his arms around me and I cling to him, and it feels like he’s absorbed me into him. I have the most insane, obscene urge to cry. Why the fuck do I want to cry? I can’t let it happen. If I do, he’ll think I’m one of those crazy bitches who start sobbing after sex in the movies, and that is the very last thing I want. Instead, I press my face into the skin of his chest, eyes closed, trying to remember what my life looked like before he was in it. All I can remember is darkness.
Zeth slowly rolls us over, still inside me, so that he’s lying on his back and I’m lying on top of him. There isn’t a second where he removes his arms from around me. He holds on tight, like he’s afraid I’m about to vanish into thin air. I can hardly breathe around the burning in my throat as his huge hands, used for so many years for violence, for inflicting pain, carefully stroke my hair.
Chapter Eight
Zeth
Something is really fucking wrong with me. When I left the house this morning, Sloane was sniffing and coughing, and all I wanted to do was stay home and take care of her. I had no idea how to do that, though, so I left instead. Feeling fucking useless is not my wheelhouse. My wheelhouse is smashing shit up and making people feel decidedly worse than before they met me. I don’t have the first clue how to make someone feel better.
And the sex?
I don’t even want to think about the sex. It was fucking insane in the very best way. Six months ago I’d have laughed hysterically at the very prospect of being intimate like that with someone. Sex has always been an outlet for some of my more exotic proclivities; it sure as shit has never been an outlet for affection. Or a display of love.
As I drive toward the gym, I bite the bullet. I let the guy from before, the guy I was for years, have free rein. What the fuck are you doing, asshole? She’s just some piece of ass. She’s going to ruin you if you let her. Women come and go. They don’t sleep in your bed. They don’t make you coffee in the morning. And you don’t fucking make love to them! You fuck. You fight. You flee. That’s always been the rule, man. What the hell is wrong with you?
What would Charlie think?
My stomach feels like it’s full of ice-cold water at that last thought. For years, what Charlie thought or wanted or cared about was all that concerned me. The fucker tried to kill me repeatedly. He stole into my room every night for years, playing his fucked-up mind games with me, and yet still some desire to please him is ingrained deep within my bones. The guy’s dead and even now I can’t escape him. How fucked up is that?
I’m almost at the gym when my cell starts ringing. Assuming it’s Michael, I almost answer it without thinking. The out-of-state number on the display catches my eye, though. I stare at the screen for a moment, debating whether to answer. On the sixth ring, I make up my mind. This had better be fucking good.