I position myself over his saliva-slickened cock and slowly impale myself until I can’t take anymore. Until his dark brown curls fuse with my short, blonde ones. Until I can’t tell where my body ends and where his begins.
Tucker looks up at me like I am a goddess and my body is his only religion. For twenty minutes, I let him worship me with his hands and tongue and praise. And when pressure collects inside that little knot inside me that urges me to take him harder, faster, deeper, I bless him with an orgasm so intense that neither one of us can move, let alone talk. We can barely even breathe.
He kisses the top of my head, murmuring words of adoration and amazement. Telling me how happy I’ve made him, and how he only wants to do the same for me . . . forever. I turn into his chest and inhale the scent of his sweat, and I resist the urge to lap up every salty drop. I tamp down the desire to bite his humid flesh, to rake my fingernails over his skin until it blisters with tiny droplets of blood. And in turn, he would flip me over and fuck me like a wild dog, punish me for my transgression until I cry from the brutality. I’d trade all his sweet nothings and replace them with vile slurs said in a frenzy of violent passion. He’d spank my bare ass as he fucked me until my skin was bright pink and burning with his handprints. He would pull my hair until my scalp stung with red-hot needles. And just before I found sweet relief in all the pain, he’d grasp my throat until I came so hard that I’d lose consciousness.
That scares me. I scare me. Because if he knew what I really wanted, what would really make me lose myself in a haze of pleasure, he would realize just how sick and wrong I am. And he’s worked so hard to make me right again.
I can be good for him. Whatever I’m feeling, whatever I am . . . it’s just a phase or remnants of PTSD. It’s not the real me. It’s not what I really want. What I want is Tucker—sweet, safe, stable Tucker. And dammit, he wants me. And I’d be damned if I lose him over imagined affliction inside my twisted mind.
I prop my chin on my hands and look down into sky blue eyes, and smile. He smiles back, causing those too-full lips to fall into a smile too pretty for any man to possess. And I know right then and there, exactly what I want. And what I will always desire from this gorgeous man that has taken the scattered pieces of me and put me back together into something more beautiful than it was before.
Love me.
Hate me.
Chapter Fourteen
N OW
It’s the middle of the night when I realize I’m not alone. There’s someone stalking in the shadows of my pitch-black bedroom. Someone watching me sleep, counting each inhale and exhale. Admiring the way the moonlight casts tattooed ghosts on my hauntingly pale skin. Breathing in the scent of my naked sex, still slick with a salacious dream.
He touches my shoulder, brushing the skin so softly that his fingernails feel like feather vanes. The whispered caress moves down my back, deliberately stroking every column of vertebrae until his hand stops at the top of my ass. He gently probes my seam and applies just a breath of delicate pressure at my puckered place before moving down to the wet, hot swell just below.
I wish I had the nerve to tell him not to stop. To go back to that little slice of exile and make it his. To rip me open and make me cry and scream with the pain of intense pleasure. But alas, I stay quiet. Because there is nothing decent or romantic about wanting a man to fuck your ass so good and deep that you can’t sit the next day. And Tucker is a champion of decency and romance.
He slips a finger inside me and it goes in easily. He fills me with another and I take it with an encouraging moan.
“You’re wet, baby,” he whispers.
“I was dreaming of you.”
“Yeah? Well, let me make your dream a reality.”
Tucker removes his fingers and flips me over onto my back. I find that he’s already naked too, as if he had been anticipating this moment since before he found me sleeping in the nude. His hot mouth finds my pebbled nipples, and he licks and sucks his way down to my navel, all the while positioning himself between my legs. When I feel the first stroke of his tongue against my clit, I reflexively grasp a handful of his hair and pull him in closer, grinding my sex into his mouth, seeking teeth, rigid tongue, and the roughness of stubble. Yet, before he bestows me with the insanity I crave, he crawls up my body and aligns himself with my entrance.
“You want this, don’t you, baby?” he asks, looming over me.
“Yes.”
“Already so wet and hot.” He wraps a hand around his hard cock and guides the head up and down my slick folds. “Tell me how bad you want me inside you.”
“So bad, Tuck. It hurts. The emptiness aches so much,” I cry.
He relieves just the surface of my suffering by pushing in an inch, just enough for my body to suck in his swollen head. I know he wants to go deeper but he is a master of restraint and order. He’s never lost to passion or imprisoned by lust. He never wants me so badly that he can’t control himself.
“Please,” I beg. But I know it falls on deaf ears. He thinks this is what I seek—the chase. But what I’m begging for has nothing to do with his dick inside me. I want his madness. I want his rage and hysteria. I just don’t think he’s capable of giving it to me. Not when it doesn’t exist.
He watches me as I pant and whine and paw at his chest before giving in to my plea, and filling me to the root. I cry with glee at the first initial jolt of pain. The first stretch of my flesh around his rock-solid cock and the invasion of it stabbing my womb. He pulls out to the tip and thrusts in again, this time even harder.
“Yes,” I moan. “Yes, again. Harder.”
And after a marriage—a life—of order, routine, and restraint, my husband fucks me.
Finally. He’s finally heard me. Maybe last weekend didn’t hurt us like I initially thought. Maybe he just needed to see what I needed. See what I want with him.
I moan louder than I ever have. I tell him how good he’s fucking me, how big he feels inside me, how badly I want to taste his seed all over my tongue and tits. He’s silent, for the most part, with the occasional grunt. He looks as if he’s concentrating, like he’s focused on not coming too soon and ending the moment. I don’t question it. I just want him to keep pounding me into the headboard and keep squeezing my tits hard enough to bruise.
When the feeling goes beyond splendid to the place where ecstasy can’t be defined, I take his hand and wrap his fingers around my throat.
“What are you doing?” He’s still stroking but his rhythm has slowed.
“I want you to choke me when I come for you. I want you to squeeze my neck so hard I see stars. Then fuck me until I black out.”
He stops.
He pulls out of me like my body is fueled by scorpion venom.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, sitting up.
“You want me to . . . ?” He can’t even say it. A grown fucking man pushing forty and he can’t even speak candidly about sex with his wife.
“It’s no big deal, Tuck. Lots of couples enjoy erotic asphyxiation. It heightens the orgasm.” I reach out to pull him back to me, but he retreats even farther.
“Heidi . . . that’s sick. That’s wrong. How can someone like you . . . ?”
“Someone like me?” I scoff. “Someone who has been raped and beaten?”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true! That’s what you think of me, isn’t it? That I’m sick and fucked in the head.”