That would never happen, of course; she wasn’t a punching bag, and he would never, ever use her like that. But her offer, made with such sincerity and love, had stolen his breath.
He’d told her once that he’d taken all the shit from his childhood and turned it around. His anger to fighting and his need for control to sex. All true, yes. But the deeper truth was that the anger stemmed from control as well. From the lack of control, to be specific. From the feeling of being tossed aside by his father who’d had a whole hell of a lot of better shit to do with a hell of a lot better son.
Sometimes it really was about getting out there and getting bloody. Getting lost in the ring and the rage.
But more often, all that he truly needed was to release some of the pressure inside him. To fight back against whatever cosmic joke the universe was pulling at that moment and grab control where he could.
Before Sylvia, that would have been cause to call a few friends like Sutter who were uniquely hooked in. Find out what warehouse was hosting the action that night, and see if he could get a piece of it.
Now, though, they could fight their demons together. Yin and yang. Control and submission. Pleasure and pain. And on and on and on until they sent each other spiraling over that invisible line where it all became the same. Where pain gave way to pleasure, and control revealed itself to be nothing more than surrender.
That was the heart of the truth, wasn’t it? Because no matter what games they might play in bed—no matter how much he professed to be the one in control—in life, Sylvia held Jackson’s heart in her hands, and he was utterly hers.
Right now, though, she was his. And he was too hard and too eager to decline the pleasure she had offered. Use her? Hell, yes he would. Deeply, intimately, and very, very thoroughly.
Slowly, he moved his arm from around her waist, trailing his fingers up so that he could gently stroke her perfect skin. So that he could glide over her curves—her hip, her waist, her breast.
He pressed his palm over her breast, cupping it, feeling his cock twitch as her softness filled his palm. Then he flattened his hand and very lightly stroked her nipple with his palm. She whimpered in sleep, but didn’t wake. Her body, however, was beginning to rouse in response to his ministration, and the nipple he’d been teasing was now taut and tight. He took it between two fingers, rolling it gently but firmly as her areola puckered.
As he teased her breast, he pressed his lips to the back of her neck, brushing a kiss over the tattoo there. She had so many, all marking her battles and triumphs over her demons. Too many, he thought. And two of them, he knew, were because of him. The flame on her breast, and his initials on her lower back.
His chest squeezed tight as he pulled down the sheet so that he could see her ink in the afternoon light now streaming through the window. He slid down, pressing his lips to her skin, dancing his tongue along the line of his initials. He heard her soft moan, and stopped briefly, but she hadn’t awakened.
Good.
He knew now what he wanted to take. How he needed to use her, accepting the gift of herself that she’d given him, and returning it with pleasure and with a silent promise that they belonged together.
Not a hard, pounding fuck. For now, at least, he’d exorcised his demons. But dear god, he did need to be inside her—to claim her fully and control her pleasure completely. To see her face as she awakened with his cock deep within her and her body primed and wet and soft with need.
He wanted her to realize that he understood the depth of what she had offered him and that he welcomed it. Hell, he craved it.