Christ. The woman is my Bathsheba, my Delilah, my Mary all rolled into one. My weakness, my damnation…my strength.
“No,” she immediately objects. “I don’t regret it. As much as I might’ve wanted to close my eyes and not wake up when Connor died, I’m not dead.” Her low, hoarse words are daggers slicing through flesh and bone. The thought of losing her forever… I inhale. Deliberately push the breath out through my nose. Focus on her, because she’s the only thing chaining me to this couch.
“I need to know that I’m healing, thatallparts of me are coming alive again,” she continues. “And you did that for me. It was just…a little overwhelming. A little scary.” She emits a breathless chuckle that smacks of self-deprecation, shrugging a shoulder. “I should’ve been prepared. I’ve seen how you…”
I slowly straighten, stiffening. And not just my erection. Tension invades my shoulders, my spine, my stomach. Every sense is tuned into her. I notice the slash of scarlet over her ripened-wheat skin. Hear the slight catch in her breath before she glances away from me. I even imagine I can detect the sharp scent of her embarrassment, as well as the arousal that has the pulse at the base of her neck working double time.
“Eden,” I rumble, her name a tumble of ragged edges in my chest. “You’ve seen what?” When she gives her head one hard shake, I call her again, not bothering—or able—to keep the razor edge from it. “Eden. You’ve. Seen. What?”
Slowly, she swings her gaze back to me, and there are nerves in those umber depths, nerves and mortification. And lust. Dark and bright at the same time. Shy and bold. The perfect dichotomy that is her.
“Tell me,” I order, lowering my voice but not eliminating the steel threading through it.
Fingers twist together in her lap. Shoulders draw back. “The night we went out to the bar to celebrate my new promotion, I saw you. In the storeroom. With a girl.” She swallows, and a very fine shiver runs over her. If every bit of my attention wasn’t focused on her, I might’ve missed it. But I don’t. And coupled with the flare of heat in her eyes, I can guess the origin of that shudder. It’s the same thing that has me so damn hard, my dick could be a newly discovered type of metal. “She was blowing you. Or you were holding her steady while you fucked her mouth. I’m still not sure which one.”
God.Damn. I remember the woman and the blow job she’s talking about. It’s all kinds of screwed up, but that wasn’t the first time I got head from a woman at a bar, club, or hell, even the gym. The women—we give each other pleasure. But we have a clear understanding that it’s only for those moments, that night and nothing beyond. The ugly, asshole-ish truth? None of them are memorable. Because none of them were Eden.
Yet, the thought of her watching me fuck a woman’s mouth, take her throat. The knowledge that she stood there and stared at me come…
A violent electrical storm barrels into the room and plows into me, lighting me up, setting me on fire, transforming me into a living, charged lightning rod.
Now is when I need to get to my feet, mutter a goodbye, and haul ass out of the apartment. Away from her. From the temptation of sin and guilt-ridden-but-dick-breaking sex. If I had any sense, any self-respect, any morals, any concern for other people rather than just myself, I would.
But I’m a stupid, contemptuous, depraved, self-serving fuck because I narrow my gaze on her and murmur, “But you want to find out, don’t you?”
Her eyes widen slightly, her nude, plump lips parting. I’ve caught her off guard, but, in seconds, arousal eclipses surprise in that deep, liquid stare. Still, it’s several long moments before she dips her head in a nod and breathes, “Yes.”
The force of the surging need and lust is a blinking, neon, billboard-sized clue that, again, I should leave. But right now, with her pulse dancing wildly in that dip above her collarbone, and when I can already feel those soft, explosive pants of hers against my lips, I’m willing to shove the consequences into the cross-that-bridge-when-I-come-to-it vault and lock the door.
“Tell me what you saw,” I demand, grit scouring my throat and voice.
“I-I already did…” she stammers.
“In detail. Tell me.”
Her lids briefly lower, and maybe I’ve pushed her too far. Shit, I’m probably—what was the word she used?—overwhelming her again.
I should pull back, grant her space and mercy.
Instead, I wait.
“She was on her knees in front of you,” she begins in a whisper-soft, halting voice. The tip of her tongue peeks out and sweeps the sensual curve of her bottom lip. I pull a submission hold on the growl churning in my chest and heading for my throat. But goddamn, I can practicallyfeelthat delicate caress, that puff of warm breath. “Your hand was wrapped around her hair, tugging her head back, and she…”
Eden shifts on the chair. Trying to get pressure on that pretty, fluttering clit? Attempting to ease the empty ache deep inside her? The questions—the answers—send another blast of heat streaming through my veins at warp speed.
“She, what?” I push, unablenotto. Hearing her narrate this tale in that husky, low voice full of innocence and heavy with lust is ripping a hole in my gut.
“She was sucking you off. Hard. Deep. And you—” She pauses, and her gaze briefly dips before lifting to mine again. “And you were at her mercy. I saw your eyes, your face. She was kneeling, but your pleasure was hers. But at the same time, you were in control, your hold on her deciding how fast or slow. How much of you she took.” In a gesture that had to be unconscious, that was both seductive as hell and sweet, she brushes three of her fingers over her mouth. As if she’s feeling the stretch of her lips around my cock. “Even when she choked a little, she remained on her knees. Taking it.”
“Did she like it?” I press, the question barely audible to my own ears through the filter of dark, thick lust pounding in my head, my body.
“No,” she whispers without the slightest hesitation. “She loved it.” Her hand drops from her face and settles on her thigh, curling into a tight fist. “And I hated her,” she admits, her gaze entrapping me now. Fuck if I’m not a willing prisoner. It’s too late to look away, to leave. Much too late for that. “I hated her because I wanted tobeher.”
I wanted to be her.
Her confession, though hushed, echoes in the room like a roar in a baseball stadium filled to maximum capacity.
I wanted to be her.
