I’ve never been this wet before. Never been this vocal.
I’ve never felt anything this . . . good. Because Ransom is so fucking good.
The little monster in me thrashes, coaxing me to buck against him and meet him punishing thrust for punishing thrust. I feel an intrusion in my belly, sparking a sharp stab of pain, but I keep going, needing more. The ache just spurns me on and I spread my thighs wider, welcoming him to crawl in deeper and never leave.
My knees begin to quiver under me with the first signs of climax. Ransom places a hand on my bare belly, and—surprisingly gentle—eases me down flat onto the mattress. He keeps moving inside me, but he slows his pace, focusing on the depth this angle allows. In this position, where his body is wholly pressed against mine, I can feel every solid, sweat-slickened inch of him. The hard planes of muscle straining with every languid stroke. His soft hair tickling my cheek and shoulder. His warm, ragged breath fanning over my face. It’s so much more intimate than I expected from him, and although I can do intimate, I just don’t know if I should do intimate with him.
I think I hear him whisper something in my ear, yet I don’t hear him. Before I have a chance to ponder it further, he does it again, and I realize . . . he’s not whispering.
He’s singing.
His voice is breathy and light, yet I’d know that sultry rasp anywhere. And I’ve heard those lyrics before. Hell, I heard them just hours ago.
Shatter me with lies
You beautiful monster
Feel like I could die
Let you pull me under
Holy shit.
Ransom Reed, founder and lead singer of the Grammy-nominated band Ransom, is singing to me while fucking me.
Even with him nine inches deep inside me, I feel like a line has been crossed with those hypnotic words of surrender. He said he wanted to make me sing when I came for him. Maybe I misunderstood the meaning behind those words. Maybe it was he who wanted to sing for me.
I look to Tucker, wondering if he feels it too, yet his eyes are half closed as he strokes himself eagerly. With a pained groan, milky white droplets spurt from the head of his cock. Yet, he doesn’t stop, rubbing his hot release into his still hardened, jerking flesh.
God, that’s fucking hot. Hotter than anything I’ve ever seen. The sight brings me back into the moment, and I give in to the pressure between my thighs that now pulses out of control as those lyrics replay in my head on repeat.
Shatter me with lies
You beautiful monster
Feel like I could die
Let you pull me under
I’m breathing erratically, feeling like I may pass out from the Category 5 orgasm that’s creeping up my thighs. I begin to shiver despite Ransom’s hot body pressed into mine, and he somehow wraps me in his arms even tighter. His hand snakes under me and cradles my face, tilting my head up toward him, gazing at me lovingly through hooded eyes, caressing the edge of my mouth with the pad of his thumb . . .
He kisses me.
It’s soft, almost timid at first, but even more intimate than his whispered song in my ear. At first I don’t know what to do, but then hunger and craving set in, and I realize I am kissing him back just as eagerly, savoring his taste of sin and salvation. I reach back to thread my fingers through his sweat-dampened locks and open my mouth wider to give him full access to my tongue.
I’m drowning in him, eyes closed, breath stolen, utterly dying as this man fills me up and drains my very soul. I tremble around him, growing wetter, hotter. He feels it too, and responds with swift, jerky thrusts that nearly break me in half. Ransom releases my lips and sinks his teeth into my shoulder as his orgasm pours out of him. Hearing that erotic grunt of surrender and feeling him pulse wildly inside me as his seed spills into the thin barrier of latex is my undoing, and I cry out with my own climax, sobbing as my body quakes in beautiful agony.
We lay there together, utterly spent and broken. We breathe the same breath, our chests moving in tandem. He releases my shoulder from his teeth and tenderly kisses the stinging skin with swollen lips. I turn my face as far as it will go in hopes of basking in one of those kisses. That’s when I see him.
My husband. Staring at us.
His lips are merely a thin, white slash across his hard face, and his shrewd eyes are made of sapphire. Although his erection is long gone, he still hasn’t bothered to redress. I open my mouth to explain, but quickly snap it shut when I realize I have nothing to explain. He wanted this. He asked for this, just as much as I did. And now he’s looking at me like he just caught me cheating on him.
Ransom eases off and out of me, causing me to wince. My whole body hurts—the back of my neck where he held me down, my hips where his fingers dug into the soft flesh, my ass that he slapped without remorse, my shoulder where he bit down as he rode out his orgasm. My joints are pure mush, and I struggle to roll over, taking the comforter with me to cover myself. Suddenly, I feel too exposed, too vulnerable. Even the room seems too quiet.
Without a word, Ransom dresses hastily. He doesn’t even look at me or Tucker. His expression is blank, and it drives me positively mad not to know what he’s thinking.
After he’s secured his gray beanie over messy locks, he finally looks down at me and says, “Caleb knows how to find me.” Then he walks out of the room and out of the suite. I wouldn’t be surprised if he left the hotel altogether.
Reluctantly, I look over at my husband. He stares at me with such unrelenting coldness that I physically shiver, even though my skin is burning up.
I swallow.
Shit.
What have we done?
Chapter Seven
T EN YEARS AGO . . .
It’s Thursday.
I always look forward to Thursdays.
Not because I love spilling my guts about shit that I really don’t want to talk about—I hate that part. But because I get to see him.
Dr. DuCane. He told me I could call him Tucker.
Tucker is way too young to be a shrink. And way too handsome. I know he’s got a few years on me, but he honestly doesn’t look it. Who am I kidding? The man is fucking hotter than sin. Although he doesn’t act like it. If anything, he acts like he doesn’t realize he’s the walking epitome of sexy. And if he does, the news doesn’t seem important to him.
No. What are important to Tucker is his work and his patients. And I happen to be one of his patients. Of course, none of that was truly my decision.
I was only three weeks into my second year at Indiana State, and I was already failing Econ. I didn’t get it—I loved money. Making it, spending it, stashing some away for a rainy day. So I should’ve been totally acing the hell out of this class, right? Well, not according to Professor Geldman.
So in a quest to save my stellar GPA, I sought out help—something that was just as difficult for me to do as admitting I was failing. There was this guy in class . . . Patrick Keller. He had taken an interest in me since the first day I strolled into the lecture hall, and while he was nice and not bad to look at, I really wasn’t interested. I busted my ass to score a scholarship there, and I wasn’t about to get blindsided by a pretty face in khakis. However, Patrick was killing it in that class, and lucky for me, agreed to tutor me. So twice a week, we’d meet up for a study session at the library or Starbucks or anywhere else we could find a vacant table. But never in our dorms. I made it clear that our relationship was strictly platonic.