“You don’t think I’ll bare my soul to you?” He steps back and spreads his arms wide. He looks like an avenging angel, his dark hair flopping over his hooded gaze, his hands turned skyward. Tall and lean and wide and mean.
“I think there’s room for you to bare plenty and still not really tell me anything at all. I think that you and I use the word secrets in two totally different ways.”
His head lifts up an inch, and his eyes glitter. “You need to get over what happened in London.”
“And you need to not speak to me like I’m a child.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” He growls. “Even when it’s only a fraction of what I want, I’m here because you snapped your fingers.”
I gasp. “That’s not fair.”
“No? You don’t think I’m yours?”
“I think you were someone else’s first, in so many more ways than you’ll ever be mine.”
“We can’t all be virgins, Ali. You might not have been my first, but you’re my last. My only.”
I shake my head. “Don’t say that.”
“You don’t want to know how much you mean to me? You don’t think I’ll fight for you? I’d kill for you. If I back off, it’s only to regroup.”
“You’re going about it all the wrong way,” I cry, frustrated he doesn’t see it as clearly as I do. “All you have to do is be honest with me!”
“It’s not that simple,” he grinds out. “You say that like I know what you want to hear, but I don’t have any clue. You want to know…what? Do you want me to be honest about my kill count in war zones?”
“Fiancées would be a good start.”
“Fine. I had one. It was a mistake.”
“Do you not hear yourself? I’m banging my head against a brick wall here. You had two chances already. I’ve already told you my darkest secrets. I told them to you before you even had a piece of me. So don’t tell me that I don’t know what you’re holding back. I know, Scott. Because I’ve given you my soul. f*ck
this baring it nonsense. You own my soul. So no, I don’t want to give you my heart, as well, because I still don’t have anything of yours. See how telling me a bit here and there won’t make that f*ck
ing even?” I’m raging now, so hard that I’m shaking, and suddenly he’s got me in his arms.
“I’m sorry.” They’re simple words, and they don’t actually say much. But it’s the way he says them, gruff and rough, emotion scratching each round syllable until the two words are burrs that hook into me and hang on. “You did, and I didn’t, and it’s not enough. I’ll do better.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want…I don’t want promises.”
He’s holding me so tight now that it hurts. “What do you want?”
I want this. “You. Just you.”
He presses his forehead against mine. Our noses jostle for position as we kiss each other. It’s fast and furious, a little rough and a lot raw, but it feels right.
It feels right, too, when he wrenches down my pants, all the way to my ankles, and sets me on the kitchen counter. Eyes dark and burning, he strokes the seam of my p*ussy
. “You’ve been shaving.”
“Just tonight. For you.”
He jerks my hips right to the edge of the counter and drops to his knees, shoving his face right between my legs. There’s nothing smooth about this. He’s hungry for me, and I’m dying for any touch on offer. The combination is combustible, and it doesn’t take long before I feel an orgasm start to build deep in my belly.
But he’s not going to give it to me that easy.
My orgasms are his to dole out, and he’s going to make me work for them. If he can’t trade something else, he’ll just trade in this—my ache, my need.
I don’t blame him. I’d do the same thing in his shoes.
He stands again, his hands rough and insistent on my hips as he slams our bodies together. I taste myself on his face. It makes my legs shake.
He looks down between us as he licks his lips. “You’re wet,” he says. Understatement.
“You turn me on,” I admit plainly.
He shakes his head. “It’s not me. It’s you. You’re pure passion, Ali.”
I can’t imagine ever sharing that with anyone else. “Just with you.”
He gives me a sad smile. “I know.”
He touches me, stroking me at first, then he slides a finger and then two fingers inside, making me stretch both around him and for him. I love his fingers. I’d told him, hadn’t I?
And he’d told me I didn’t deserve his cock.
My face flames.
“What are you thinking about?”
“You said I can’t have your cock.”
He gives me a long, appraising look. “That’s right. That was harsh.”
“Your fingers are enough,” I pant.
“Yeah?”
I nod. “But I want more.” And the flame burns brighter.
He adds a third finger. I know this because he tells me, but I’m not watching anymore. It’s too much. Too dirty.