Lick. Lap. Whirl.
Ignoring the innuendo and the mind-numbing pleasure, I dive into the most important aspect of his snack. “Ty, seriously. They’re going to kill you. Maybe it is rude to interrupt, but this shouldn’t be your last meal. I don’t want to become a widow after dessert.”
Replacing his tongue with his thumb, he peers at me. And the shadow of his gaze is both dark and light in a way I can’t quite describe—a shading of something that wasn’t there before. It’s sostartling, so stunningly captivating, that it seizes the air in my lungs. That and the divine rhythm on my clit that is keeping me in a haze.
“I’m not done. Tell them, or I will. Right now, all that matters is you. Us.” His intense eyes rake over my minimal curves, and he licks his lips. “Spoiling my wife. Remember?”
I bob my head—entranced because there really is anusand I really am his wife—and shout a breathy, “I’ll be coming …outsoon,” at the incessant pounding.
That’s met with a razzing, “Chicken,” from my smirking sailor and some disgruntled expletives from at least one raging Noire, but it seems no one will be kicking the door down.
And while I’m relieved and enamored by this intoxicating plight for another orgasm, it feels like choosing. Since Ty informed me that this marriage endangers my brothers, there is no other way to view it. I don’t know what to do with that.
I always knew the two of us together would be challenging. But this … this morphs my most coveted fantasy into my most unfathomable nightmare.
Everything inside me wants to shove it into a corner, pretend it isn’t happening, avoid the predicament and the pain. So, I do. Surrendering to the bliss that my husband is delivering.
“Eyes on me, baby girl,” Ty orders, and I realize I shut them in an effort to disappear. “That’s my girl,” he praises when my lids flick open. “You and me, escaping together. True fucking north.”
Nothing left to lose. Blueberry fields and rain. True north.
“It doesn’t matter who the fuck is on the other side of the door. You. Are. Mine. This cunt is mine.” His cheeks hike up in another depiction of that crazed side, sending a horde of flutters into my stomach right before he grazes his teeth over my clit with a euphoric stinging tingle. “You can pretend you don’t like the audience, but you crave being claimed like this as much as I’m desperate to remind everyone whose you are.”
There’s a split second when my stubborn side considers refuting that assessment.
But as we lock gazes and his fingers and mouth continue their exhilarating tempo, I succumb to the rapture. Allowing myself to spin and fly and revel in the unraveling only this man can bestow. My teeth sink into my lip to keep my screams at bay even though a part of me yearns to let them rip.
So, yeah, I’m freaking depraved. A zealous little slut for Tytan Reynolds.
And true to form, when I’ve gasped his name and plummeted off the blissful edge and shaken through the aftershocks, he scoops me up, moves to the bench with me in his lap, and sprinkles me with kisses, ogling my face as though it’s the first time he’s ever glimpsed me.
The scents of sex and mountain-breeze fabric softener mingle with his secret-desires musk, rendering me even more stupefied than my already-relaxed state.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “I don’t want to go out there. I want to carry you to our room and lock us in there indefinitely.” He pets my head, smoothing his hand over my matted hair. “You’re probably sore. You need a bath and a massage.”
Wow. I could get used to the spoiling, but not now.
“Well,” I begin, ripping myself from my sated fog and wiggling to touch my feet to the cool, tiled floor, “that sounds amazing. It’s a date later. But it would be avoidance now.”
“Avoidance,” he parrots, probably wondering why I’d be against that. It’s one hundred percent my style, but the wrath awaiting us is imminent regardless.
So, I keep us on track, standing before him. “Let’s just take it one task at a time. Right now, all we’re doing is getting dressed.”
He chuckles, releasing his hold on me to deliver one more jostling tweak to the bars in my nipples. “Are you handling me, Little Moon?”
“Handlingisn’t the right word.” I grab my bikini top from between the washer and dryer where it fell and peer at him as I tie it on. “I’m loving this possessive vibe. It’s very gangster of you. But Ihave five other possessive, testosterone-pumping egos to contend with, and I’m trying to wrap my mind around how volatile that’s going to be when we emerge together after clearly doing”—I gesture to the scene of the climaxes as I pluck my shorts and bikini bottoms from the floor—“that. So, getting dressed is an imperative step.”
“That’s what married people do. What the fuck can they say?” he snarls, squaring his shoulders. Combat ready.
This is all so much to absorb. His confession. His possessiveness. My brothers’ murderous rage.
“Great,” I deadpan, overwhelmed and exhausted. “When they stop wanting to kill you, I’ll explain the ins and outs of marital relations.”
His eyes soften, and although he speaks with a sternness, a pall of shame and insecurity ghosts across his features. “You just need to go out there and tell them this is what you want. They’ll accept it.”
After throwing on my bottoms, I toss him his shirt and fix my hair. “You are without a doubt what I want and what I deserve.”
His whole demeanor sinks, heaviness cloaking him—eyelids, shoulders, neck. I’m confident he wants me now, but it’s like what I realized when he first showed up in Vegas—it tortures him.
