It's a low blow, but I'm beyond playing fair.
I don't even make it halfway down the hall before he grabs me from behind and pins me to the wall, one huge hand splayed across my belly. He's so much bigger than me, always has been, but it's never felt as good as it does now, with his chest pressed to my back and his mouth hot against my ear.
"You think I don't want you?" he growls, grinding his cock against my ass. "You think I don't spend every second of every day dying to fucking ruin you?"
"Then why don't you?" I spit back, writhing against him. "Why do you keep torturing me? Why do you make me beg for something you know I need?"
He hesitates, and for a moment, I think he won't answer. But then he whispers, so soft I almost don't hear it, "Because I'm scared I'll break you again like I did last time I was inside you."
He lets go of me and backs up, his hands shaking.
I whirl to face him, my own voice trembling. "Is that what this is about?"
He nods, his jaw clenched so tight I hear his teeth grind. "Last time…I made you cry. I hurt you. I don't ever want to hurt you like that again, Brielle."
I stare at him, stunned.
It's not anger or self-loathing or even control—it's terror, pure and simple. He's terrified that if he touches me the way I want, the way I need, he'll lose himself and hurt me. Or worse, that I'll hate him for it.
A wave of grief rushes through me, but it's not for myself. It's for him. I never should have demanded that he finish it that night. We used sex as a weapon, and it destroyed us both.
I step forward, slow and gentle, and lay my hands on his face. I force him to look at me.
"You never hurt me," I whisper. "Not when we were fucking. Not even when you left bruises. Not even when you were inside me that night. What hurt me was you shutting me out. It was you pushing me away when I needed you most. It was you making me believe I wasn't enough to keep you. I wasn't crying when you were fucking me because you were hurting me. I was crying because I knew it was the last time. Do you understand?"
He shakes his head, but I see hope flickering in his eyes.
"I wanted to hurt you that night, Asher. I wanted you to fuck me because I wanted you to know it was the last time, too." My voice shakes. "I wanted that thought to hurt you as much as it did me, and I wanted the memory to haunt you."
He stares at me, stroking my cheek like he's trying to soothe me, but I don't need to be soothed. I know what I did that night—whatwedid that night. And I didn't just forgive him three weeks ago. I forgave myself, too.
"I need you, Asher. Not the good man you think I deserve. I need the real you."
He swallows, then leans into my touch.
I take his hand and drag him back to the bed before pushing him down and crawling into his lap. "If you can't trust yourself, trust me. I'll tell you if you fuck up. I'll tell you if you hurt me. I'll use the safeword if you push too far."
He breathes out, a ragged, broken sound, and clutches my hips like I'm the only thing anchoring him to the world.
"I miss you," I whisper. "I miss us."
He buries his face in my neck, inhaling me.
"I miss you, too," he groans, his voice rough. "I miss you so fucking much."
"Then take me, Asher. I'm right here."
He hesitates for a long moment, so long I think maybe he's going to refuse, but then he groans softly and pulls me down beneath him, his mouth on mine, his hands roaming everywhere, urgent and frantic. He kisses me like he's starving, like he's making up for every day he spent denying himself. When he slides his hand under my panties, I moan, loud and unashamed.
"God, you're so wet for me," he whispers, rubbing slow circles over my clit until I'm gasping and shaking.
"Don't stop," I beg, my nails digging into his shoulders.
He laughs, the sound full of wicked promise. "Never," he growls.
He rips my panties off, tossing them across the room, and then pushes my thighs apart, staring at me like he's memorizing every detail.
"You're so fucking perfect," he breathes.
