She sucked in a huge breath, turning her head away. “Are you trying to get me drunk? You’ve already got me naked.”
“Yeah, but I want to keep you that way.”
Flushed, self-conscious suddenly and aware that the covers were down around her waist, she plucked the sheet up over her breasts.
Mercy pulled it back down, one hard tug that dragged the scratchy fabric across her nipples and left them hard little buttons.
“Don’t keep covering up,” he said; it was a plea more than anything, his voice soft, confused.
“You’ve already seen me. Why do you need to keep ‘looking at’ me?” she asked, using his words of yesterday.
He gave her a sideways non-smile. “Because you’re ten in the only picture I’ve got of you, and I’ve got five years’ worth of looking to make up for.”
The Scotch was getting to her, hitting her harder and faster than she would have thought. She felt burning hot on the inside, shivery cold on the outside, her skin prickling, desire quickening in her belly.
“Are you ever going to explain it to me?” she asked, voice just a whisper. “Was it just…too messed up? Us together? Or was it because the baby–”
He sat up in a sudden rush, caught her head in his hands and kissed her hard.
They were both breathing like racehorses when he finally pulled back and rested his forehead against hers, his fists clenched tight in her hair.
“Explaining it won’t make it better,” he said. “You don’t want to know.”
“Then what am I supposed to do with all this anger?” She pressed both hands to his chest, the right one covering his tattoo. “Because I amso angrywith you, all the time.”
“I know,fillette.”
She shouldn’t have had that much to drink; she could feel herself unraveling, and that wasn’t what she’d wanted to do tonight, not in front him like this.
“Ineededyou,” she said. “I needed you more than I needed anyone, and you left.” She closed her eyes. “It’s not…it’s not unfair to want to knowwhy.”
“I can’t tell you,” he said. “It’ll only make things worse; trust me.”
“Trust you? Trust you.” She laughed, the sound a little deranged. “How can I trust you?” But the Scotch had hold of her and he was so warm and so right in front of her. Even as she laughed, she pressed her face into his neck, the stubble rough against her face, caught his skin in her teeth, bit him and kissed him and wondered, fleetingly, if she could tear his throat out like a wild dog. “I can’t trust you,” she whispered against his pounding carotid.
His hands migrated, down to her waist, pulled her in closer to him. His voice turned rough around the edges. “You can use me, though.”
In a rush, the covers were flipped back and he was pulling her astride him, up into his lap. Ava pressed at his sternum, her strength laughable, but he yielded to her, lay back on the pillows, his hands sliding down her thighs and back up, subtle, gentle encouragement.
She didn’t even need him inside; she could have come just staring at him, spread out beneath her, hers to do with what she wanted. But where was the fun in that?
She wanted to punish him, at least a little. She raked her nails up his chest, rewarded with shallow red scratches across his golden skin. His muscles leapt beneath her hands; the low-lidded, dark glittering points of his eyes told her he liked it.
She leaned low, her hair falling off her shoulders, around her face; soft rustling sounds as it pooled across his chest. Ava fitted her teeth to the marks inked into his pectoral.I can’t trust you, she’d said, but he’d had her bite him here on purpose, right over his heart. In maybe the only way an inelegant quarter-Frenchman biker could express himself, he’d told her that he’d needed her, too. That her love had affected him deeply. She’d put her teeth in his heart, long ago, and he’d left the print there, evidence that he wanted her love. That he returned it.
She pulled back a fraction, lifted her head so she could see his face: the strain of keeping still, the leashed power.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Me, too, sweetheart.”
She sat up, caressed slowly down his stomach, traced the grooves between his abs, the harsh lines at his hip bones. When she curled her hand around his cock, it felt like he was the one touching her, the damp heat building between her legs, her pulse struggling to match his. When she slowly lowered, and took him inside, she murmured a curse. She was still sore from yesterday’s vigorous round in the office, but it was a good pain. A sharp counterpoint to the pleasure of pulling him deep into her body.
Mercy said something in French she didn’t understand and his hands came up to cover her breasts.
She leaned into his touch and rose up on her knees, lowered back down, sheathing him again. Her hands fluttered against his stomach, useless movements she couldn’t seem to coordinate. She wanted to touch him everywhere, to take her time, to tease him; she wanted him to do the same to her, too, but she wanted to rush headlong at the same time, too fractious and overwhelmed to plan any of it out. It was the idea of doing more, taking it further, that drove her hips into a grinding rhythm.
When he came, he lifted up into her, the deep penetration igniting her own release.
