I fist his soft hair, drawing him nearer, begging him with my body to lick faster, suck harder, and Tucker reads me like a book, giving me exactly what I need. When I feel his teeth squeeze my inflamed flesh, I don’t even hesitate my moan. I just let it live in this space, in this time without apology, just like us.
The fabric of my dress eases down farther, stopping at the lacy waistband of my thong. It feels too heavy, too hot on my blistering skin, and I want it off me. Tucker doesn’t waste a single second yanking it over my stomach and hips when I lift my ass from the lounger. I fumble with the buttons of his shirt, needing him to feel what I feel—this heat that can only be extinguished with the brush of another’s flushed skin, and he aids me in my efforts by yanking it over his head. I move down to the belt of his slacks, then the clasp, until he is just like me—nearly naked in his underwear and exposed. Vulnerable.
Our lips lock as if we have just discovered our weakness. As if we are Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, post apple. Only the discovery of our sin does not hinder us. It only rouses us, making us crave this evil more. Creating a hunger inside that can only be sated with more wickedness.
He pulls his lips away only to lave my breasts once more before moving down to my navel. He swirls his tongue inside the tiny dip, kisses a trail from hipbone to hipbone, and then nibbles the edge of my panties. I know what he requires: permission. A sign that I want this to go further. That I want to do this as badly as he does. Tonight is in my hands. I can say no, and we can keep this right where it is—safe. Or I can raise my hips a fraction, allowing him access to my nakedness, and open the door to everything my marriage was missing before. Excitement. Danger. Passion.
His underwear meets mine on the floor almost simultaneously, and we are skin to skin. Nothing between us—no secrets, no fear, no frustration. Just me and my husband, as it should be.
There’s nothing safe about the way he touches me after that. Nothing gentle about how he pushes my back into the rounded chair. Nothing sweet about how he grips my thighs with enough force to score my skin, and spreads my legs as far as they will go, causing a cool blast of air to touch my wetness. I groan as he sits up and slides his palms to my ass. And when he aligns his dick with my slick entrance, I moan his name, begging him to take me now, fuck me now. And I don’t have to beg for long.
He fills me in one swift, hard stroke. With the position this chair allows—my pelvis tilted and my body curved, I feel him deeper than ever before. We stay locked like that for a long time, him barely thrusting, our joined sex grinding together, as we kiss passionately with uncontrollable hunger. When his hips finally flex and he pulls out just a bit, I shiver with the need to feel him again. That depth, that warmth. His body completely submerged in mine.
He fucks me then. Not his version of fucking. Not the soft-core shit I sometimes find on his computer. My husband fucks me how I need to be fucked. Hard, fast, and violent. Like he hates me. Like he needs to fuck the disgust and loathing out of me for all these years of discontent. All the years of shame and frustration. And for all the ways he couldn’t love me how I needed to be loved because of what had been done to me.
I think I always knew where the root of our problems stemmed. It was in fear. Fear of hurting me both physically and mentally. Fear of him feeling like the monster that had stripped me of my dignity and robbed me of the privilege of being a mother. We were both so scared for so long that there was no more room to feel anything else. We had built our home on an eggshell foundation, and we tiptoed around the truth, hoping that all we had constructed would not crumble under the weight of our own selfishness. And here we are, taking a wrecking ball to that home. Crushing it, dismantling it, together.
When I rake my nails over his chest, he answers me by plowing in harder, hard enough to make me yelp with pain. It doesn’t stop him. He leans over to take a nipple in his mouth, his strokes still deliciously brutal, and bites the puckered bud before sucking nearly my entire breast into his mouth like a starving infant. I pull his hair, telling him to take more, telling him he’s a greedy bastard, and he moves to the other breast, assaulting that one as well. It’s only when he comes up for air that I realize that we’ve slid to the peak of the rounded chair and Tucker is standing, his fingernails digging into my ass, his cock so far inside me, I can taste the first drops of his release just begging to be freed.
I gasp for air, the oxygen in the room suddenly becoming too thin, yet thick with lavender-tinged smoke. My chest heaves wildly and sweat rolls between my breasts, making my nipples harder than diamonds. They ache with the need to be touched and pinched. Bitten until the pink peaks become red and raw. I reach for Tucker, searching for him to anchor me, feeling so high that I may float away if he doesn’t hold on. He grabs on to my shoulder with one hand to level his strokes, and wraps the other around my throat.
It’s all I need—those nails biting into my skin, tightening, creating pressure to my carotid arteries so that my brain is denied of precious oxygen. Getting me drunk off carbon monoxide and the sheer eroticism of being fucked until I’m light-headed. His other hand abandons my shoulder and dips to my clit where he rubs the tiny bud that kisses his dick with every stroke. He’s growing for me, swelling, and I tighten around him in response, daring him to do the same. Challenging him to rip me apart and dirty me just a little bit more.
My frantic eyes wide with bliss and lack of air, I’m soundless as the first surge of orgasm overtakes me. I ride it out in rough waves, falling deeper and deeper into black water. I shake violently, unable to control the spasms that roll through my body like thunder. I can breathe now, Tucker’s grip completely loosened, yet climax still squeezes my lungs, wringing out every drop of arousal from my body like a wet cloth. I’ve never come like this before. Never experienced anything like this before. And I did it with the one person I thought would never bring me to this place—my husband.
He collapses on top of me and I wrap my arms around his sweat slickened back, the need to comfort and nurture him almost overwhelming. It’s as if he’s awakened this . . . vulnerability in me. Yet, it’s not borne of weakness. It’s freedom and strength. It’s the irrevocable feeling of unconditional love and acceptance.
Ragged with exhaustion and ecstasy, my head lolls to one side with no bones or joints to support it. I smile lazily, basking in the feeling of being completely blissed out, and allow my eyes to focus, realizing in the haze of afterglow that we’ve done it. We’ve done the unthinkable. And it was everything that I could have asked for and more.
That’s when the oily, black serpent sinks his fangs into my flushed skin, penetrating tendon and arteries. Infecting me with its ugly doubt and shame.
I only see him for a moment before he turns and stalks away. But that’s all I need; a glimpse of the dark pain that paints Ransom’s handsome face, leaving a smeared trail of dejection behind him.
Chapter Twenty-six
I wake up sated and splendidly sore when my cell rings early the next morning. It’s Tamara (who still can’t calculate the time difference) with my daily update, giving me the scoop on all my clients and events in the city. Being this far from home has been difficult, but not impossible. Thanks to the internet and a strong cell signal, I can do my job anywhere. And as long as my clients stay out of the proverbial kitchen, no one has to get burned. Also, my two most controversial, i.e. difficult, clients are merely yards away. Which has proven to be just as much of a curse as a gift.