“Like what?”
“You really ready to get knocked up all over again? Fucking shit, Tilly, is this just all a fucking game to you?”
I attempt to flip back over to chew him out for being a dick, but he pins me down between the shoulder blades.
“You’re such a fucking bitch, you know that? And you’re going to ruin lives with this.”
“Stop!” I whine, and he responds with another smart spank. But then he manages to fish out a condom and roll it on while holding me down.
“You asked for this,” he growls before slamming his cock into me.
I did ask for this. I practically begged for it. And I thought I was ready for it, but it burns. Holy shit, it burns.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” I squeak, clenching and twisting beneath him, burying my forehead against my palm, desperate to work through the pain.
Blaise freezes.
He pulls out slowly, excruciatingly slowly, but he says nothing. He keeps hold of my hips, but it’s more supportive than anything.
I take a big breath, steady myself, then push back. “Don’t stop,” I whisper. “I asked for this.”
He spanks me harder than before, but then he slides himself back in, slow and steady.
Spank.
Slide.
Spank slide.
Every strike of his hand, sometimes on the right and sometimes left but not in an obvious pattern, stings a little more. The way he fills me is too much and not enough, working me until I’m nothing but a whimpering, drooling bruise, begging him to hurt me, to finish me, to love me, but the words are long gone. When he rolls me back to face him, I swear the edge of the table is lined with razor blades for the way they cut into my ass.
But I’m too mindless to do anything but obey when he tells me to look at him, right in his eyes, as he comes inside me.
I melt into nothing.
He holds me close for what feels like an eternity after he comes, and then he whispers, “You fucking ruined my life, you know that?”
He peels himself off me and stalks to the bathroom.
But then, thirty seconds later, he returns with a warm, damp towel and my fluffiest bathrobe.
“Are you sure it’s a good time for me to go?” I ask Joss for probably the millionth time before I leave. This is the best day for my trip; not only are the boys all at training camp, but Blaise isn’t even in the country. When he left for camp, he said he wouldn’t be coming home for two weeks, but I know Blaise. If he can figure out a way to sneak out for the night, he’ll do it. And he’s called me every night, coerced me into phone sex half the time, although his sex drive is enough that I only pretended to get off while really giving my vagina a much-needed break.
I had no idea what I was unleashing that day Emerson visited. Not that I had control over any of it to begin with.
It’s been a month since then, and it’s been good. Great. Weird. Blaise.
He sang Donovan to sleep three nights ago when nothing I did would calm him. The day the boys left and I migrated up to Joss’s place — her baby’s coming any day now, and Gabe didn’t want her to be alone when she goes into labor — Blaise had me set my phone in Donovan’s lap so they could video chat while I drove. Donovan usually passes out in the car, but not that trip.
Joss points down at her studio, a renovated barn behind the ancient two-story house she and Gabe live on the secondfloor of, her fabric shop taking up the entire first floor. Rose and Iris, easily identified by their hair, are dragging a wagon filled with quilting supplies into the studio. “They’ve booked a couple of long-arms all morning, and then there’s a big beginner quilting class tonight. I’m just going to hang out down there. I won’t be alone for a second. You know Iris and Rose will set up camp in there if there’s even a chance I’ll go unsupervised.”
It sounds good. Iris and Rose are as frail as fall leaves in January, but they’re loud. If Joss goes into labor, they’ll call for the brigade.
“Right. I just promised Gabe I wouldn’t go anywhere.”
“You said you’d be back in six hours. Your dad hasn’t met Donovan yet? That’s insane! When was the last time you even saw him? I can’t remember the last time you said you were going up there.”
Technically, never. It’s complicated. And I thought it would be weird trying to explain my situation to Joss or Cora, so I never did. Cora comes from a perfect family. Her mom still cooks family dinner every Sunday even though both Cora and her brother are adults with important jobs that have them forever traveling. But Cora still makes it every Sunday she can.
