“I don’t care! You can’t do this! You can’t just throw me around. You can’t just put your hands on me whenever you want to. You can’t have me! I am not yours! Understand? I am not yours to touch!”
I know I’m not making any sense, but it feels good to scream. The freedom of letting go, of purging myself of this affliction for him, is therapeutic.
He grips my wrists, yet I still thrash with elbows and knees and teeth. I fight him for making me feel for him. For making me feel less for my husband. For making me realize that there is something sick and twisted inside me that is wrong, and will always be wrong. And making me accept my disease because there are people like him in this world that are wrong too. Because even though Tucker has tried his damnedest to appease me, to feed my wrongness, I’ll always know that he is only pretending for me because he loves me. And Ransom . . . Ransom is wrong without even trying. And that is so right for me.
I don’t realize I have collapsed into his chest until he wraps his arms around my trembling frame. I try to pull away but I’m too exhausted to fight him anymore—to fight this. Sweat, tears, and water streak down my face, creating a salty, slippery salve between us.
“I hate myself,” I sob. “I hate myself for wanting you. And I hate him for letting me.”
Big, callused hands on my neck, my shoulders, my back. Lips in my hair, my temple. I feel him shake his head as he holds me tighter.
“Don’t hate yourself. And don’t hate him. Hate me, H. Hate me for wanting you just as badly.”
I push away from him, my palms over his nipples, but he keeps his fingers locked around my waist. Looking up at him with contempt and desire battling for my next breath, I tell him the truth. I tell him what I don’t really mean. “I already do.”
“Then show me,” he whispers, stepping in closer. “Show me how much you hate me. Loathe me. Despise me. Detest me. But don’t reject me. Don’t push me away because you think I can’t take it. Because I want it, H. I want that beautiful violence. I want you to scratch and kick and scream. Because you know what’s on the other side of that madness?”
“Don’t say it.” I shake my head frantically, refusing to hear it. “Don’t fucking say it.”
“Passion. Obsession.” He pulls me in closer so that my hands are sandwiched between our chests. “Love.”
It happens so quickly—his arms around me lifting me up, my legs wrapping around his waist, and our mouths fused together, drinking in every drop of each other’s daring desire. I’m in peril with his arms wound around me so tightly that I can only breathe through him, his lungs sustaining mine. With his rock hard length pressing into me through the thin fabric of our bathing suits, I might as well sacrifice myself to him now, lay my head down on the chopping block, and let him end me. I’m helpless to him—utterly defenseless against this chest that was cut from smooth marble and these lips that have whispered the most erotically beautiful lyrics ever conceived.
He rips my bikini top away just as he presses me up against the pool wall. We’ve somehow moved to the shallow area adorned with huge boulders that sift water through cracks and manmade spigots. Under the cool spray, deep into this cradle of limestone and granite, we’ve found our oasis. It’s not the striptease classes or the erotic yoga. It’s not even the den of iniquity. It’s just us, unabashedly honest in our skin.
My back rakes against the rough stones as Ransom grinds his pelvis into mine. My elbows are on his shoulders and my fingers are knotted in his hair. I bite his bottom lip, tasting salt and iron, and he digs his fingertips deep into my ass, breaking the skin. We groan together, sharing this pain, relishing this pleasure. He spreads my cheeks wider and slides his hands under my bathing suit bottom until his fingers meet my seam. I shudder at the feel of him there, in that place that Tucker has never touched. In the place I touch myself when I get off alone. He places the very tip of his finger against the pucker and presses gently, waiting for me to squirm and tighten in refusal. I gasp inside his mouth, telling him I won’t say no. That word doesn’t even exist in my vocabulary right now.
Ransom thrusts against the thin nylon covering my pussy, aligning his steel length with my swell. “You want me to fuck you here?” he whispers against my lips. His finger presses me from behind, and he slowly inserts the tip. “And here?”
Emboldened by his candor, and the image of him filling me from both ends, I nod my head feverishly. “Yes. Please.”
Without removing his finger, he pulls at the ties on each side of my bikini bottoms while I fumble with the drawstring of his shorts. I reach under the waistband and wrap my hand around his thick, hard cock, pulling it between us. It throbs against my belly, the silken skin stretched tight around its impressive size. I stroke it against me, loving his little jerks and twitches. I imagine how it would feel in my mouth. How he would taste when the first drops of pre-release would bead at the head. How hot his seed would be sliding down my throat.
“I want to taste you,” I tell him, as we both watch the way his dick pulses with its own heartbeat.
“I want you to. But you’d drown in here.”
We share a chuckle that’s quickly cut off when Ransom sinks his tongue into my mouth. He kisses me hungrily, fucks my mouth just as he told Tucker to do. But his fucking feels different. It’s hard, desperate, deep. Unapologetic, just like the rest of him. His finger still lodged inside me starts to move just a fraction. It’s slight, almost nonexistent, but with my tightness and the friction of the water, even that tiny movement has me groaning. I stay completely still, fighting the urge to slide back and devour that finger, but I know it’d be too much too soon. Ransom knows what he’s doing, and while I may not fully trust him with my heart, I know I can trust him with my body.
He slips his finger in deeper, just past the nail, and slowly thrusts in and out. My whole body shakes with the feeling and I grip him tighter in my palm in response. We stay like that for what seems like forever—him fingering my puckered tightness deeper, stretching me to take him, and me fisting his cock against my belly.
When he gets his finger in past the knuckle, he shifts, bending at the knees while still holding me up, and thrusts inside me. I cry out in uncontained madness, overwhelmed with the feeling of him fucking me from every angle. Even his tongue keeps in time with the rhythm of his strokes.
The first time with Ransom, I wasn’t allowed to feel. My body felt him—adored him—but I had to keep it superficial. At least that’s what I was supposed to do. But now . . . now I have no other choice but to feel him everywhere—inside me, outside me, throughout me. He sexes my whole being—mind, body, and soul. There is no part of me that is left untouched or unfilled.
My insides quiver when the pressure from behind increases. It burns for a second as my body accepts a second finger, but it isn’t unpleasant. Actually, it feels good. Spectacular. Like Ransom’s cock is everywhere at once. Filling every empty hallow, even the ones he can’t see.
Scalding heat consumes my belly as my womb erupts with the first devastating orgasm. I cry against his lips, biting his tongue hard enough to taste his blood once again. He answers my violence by fucking me impossibly hard before pulling out of my body. I whimper at the loss of fullness, but before I can protest, he’s filling me again, this time in the place where his fingers were just buried to the knuckle.