“You thought I’d always be the good girl who couldn’t possibly—”
His lips bruise mine with the ferocity of a kiss, forcing me open, pressing me down. I dig my fingers into his arms and wrench my mouth from his. Our breath mingles hot and heavy between us. My blood throbs. His eyes are almost black. Something feral flares in his expression, a sense of possession I’ve never seen before.
You are mine, Olivia. Mine.
He doesn’t have to say it. Even through the storm of emotions, the heat swamping us both, I still know the truth.
Yes. Yours. Always.
His mouth crashes against mine again, and I open for him, melting, gasping under the delicious onslaught. He grabs a fistful of my hair and angles my head to deepen the kiss. My hands find his jeans—unfastened, but still on—and I shove at the waistband, writhing beneath the increasing pressure of his fingers between my legs.
“Dean. Take them off.”
He shifts to rid himself of his jeans and boxers, and then he moves naked over me, all hot, tense muscles and damp skin. He pushes my nightgown up past my waist, rips the panties off my legs, and spreads my thighs. His first hard thrust jars my entire body, filling me with sweet, aching pressure. I close my thighs around his hips and scrape his back with my fingernails.
Wild urgency spirals through me. Sweat pools on my throat, drops rolling down between my breasts. Dean pauses for a second to tug my nightgown over my head, and then he groans low in his throat at the sight of my bare breasts.
That reaction alone almost makes me come, but I don’t want it to be over, not yet, don’t want this exquisite pounding rhythm to end.
I don’t want him to let me go.
I close my eyes and wrap my arms around his back, moan as he pushes deeper, faster. He grips my hair again and tugs hard enough to make me open my eyes on a gasp.
“Look at me.” His order is low, rigid.
I stare at him, his face glistening with sweat, the burn of his eyes. I’m aroused by his anger, by his unyielding control.
It’s both an apology and a punishment, this frantic, desperate fucking. My breasts jostle against him, his chest hairs abrading my nipples. Tension builds tight and fast, the pressure almost unbearable.
I thrust up against him, sink my teeth into his shoulder, taste the salt of his skin. Tears spill from the corners of my eyes.
He shoves his hands beneath me, grips my bottom to haul me closer. His breath is harsh, hot against my throat, his groans vibrating into my blood.
I open my mouth to draw in a lungful of air. My veins sear with heat. Pleas fall from my lips in an endless stream.
“Dean… oh, God… harder, please… make me come… please, please…”
I writhe beneath him, shifting and pushing and rubbing. Aching. He eases back far enough to edge a hand between us and splays his fingers over my clit. One touch and I fly apart with a broken cry, convulsing around his hardness, digging my fingers into his shoulders.
As shudders rack my body, he thrusts deep again and comes inside me. My name wrenches from his throat on a growl of pleasure.
He collapses on top of me, his weight delicious against my sweaty skin, his chest heaving. I press my face against his shoulder, my cheeks still wet with tears. He puts his hand on my neck and turns my head for another hard, possessive kiss.
I’m trembling, gasping. He eases to the side, slides a hand down to my sex again and rubs, as if he knows I’m not finished, that I need more. His fingers are so adept, so familiar, that I come again within seconds, sobbing his name, clutching at him.
He wraps one arm tight around me, stroking the sensations from me until I start to calm. My heart slows, the pulsing ebbs.
We’re silent for several long minutes. Breathing. I can’t look at him. I’m sore everywhere, inside and out.
He moves away from me, and then we’re no longer touching.
“Christ, Liv,” he whispers. “What the hell are we doing to each other?”
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
I press my hands against my eyes to try and stem the tears that will not stop. After a few minutes, he gets off the bed and goes into the bathroom.
I lower my hands and stare at the ceiling through blurry eyes. Moonlight eases past the curtains, painting the ceiling with a broken pattern.
We can’t do this anymore. Can’t keep hurting each other. Our marriage has always been an island, a safe place where sea-dragons and monstrous creatures can’t reach us. Now we’re letting them in, gnashing teeth and all, and we are failing to protect each other.
I wipe my eyes, climb out of bed, and dress in jeans and a sweatshirt. The sound of the shower comes from the bathroom.