Then it sinks to me hours later, drinking a glass of wine that was contraindicated because the pills weren’t taking hold fast enough and that’s Marnie’s little trick.
I told him about my mother. My real mother.
My knees draw up to my chest despite the pain because that’s not something I’ve done before. It’s not something other people should know.
Rather than going, Seb turns on the light and lies down next to me again, touching me tenderly but with care to make sure he doesn’t reignite the pain of my injury.
The brightness makes my eyes water, and I put a hand over my face, hiding from the light.
“You were telling me—”
And his words stop because I kiss him, blatantly changing the subject with such aggression that he draws back, breaking his lips from mine and that’s not fair.
“Who do you belong to?” I ask him, my voice husky with sleep and medication.
His face is puzzled, his hand lifting hairs away from my cheek to see me better but he doesn’t give me an answer. Doesn’t give me anything I want.
“Who do you belong to?” I repeat, louder, strident, demanding.
“I…” He gives a slow shake of his head, not in negation but in confusion. “You?”
The relief takes hold, spreading with more warmth than the codeine gives me. “We can talk later. Tonight. Any subject you like but right now, I don’t want that, okay?”
His thumb draws a line over my cheekbone, the rough pad so good against my skin. I want it somewhere else, somewhere that friction will feel a hundred times more intense, more rewarding.
So I put it where I need it, keeping my eyes fixed to his until he nods in acceptance and moves to cover my mouth with his, as though he’s a mother bird feeding baby what she needs… and right now what she needs is an extra helping of Seb.
His gentleness would be perfection… except it’s not what I want. Not when I’m this afraid. Not when I think I might have gone too far, invested too much in him to ever pull back.
Now I need his roughness, to play with me regardless of how much it hurts. I need his fist twisting in my hair, his fingers pushing into me like I’m a dessert that he can’t wait to sample.
I need his fingertips sinking into my hips until they’re grinding against bone; so hard they leave marks that will last for weeks, reminding me of his passion long after the thrill of contact fades.
“Grab me,” I tell him, taking his soft hands and trying to make them hard, make them steel, make them so rough that I’ll feel them during even the good parts of my classes today, when the teachers are in their element, feeding me knowledge that my brain can suckle until its replete. “Mark me.”
His eyes flash, then he pulls away. “But you’re hurt. I don’t want to cause you any more pain.”
“You said I could come to you, and you’d give me what I need.”
My voice sounds feeble, pleading for something he told me was my right. Anger surges in response, coming out in a vicious wave.
“You promised you’d be what I needed you to be.” I pause and level a glare of outrageous heat straight into his eyes, adding the challenge, “Or was that a lie?”
His eyes look enormous enough to devour me along with his hungry mouth, but I press him, wanting an answer, wanting him to commit to the words he fed me, words that mean absolutely nothing until he shows me they’re the truth.
Then his decision is made.
Seb shoves me flat on the bed, pressing on my shoulders as he mounts me, slapping my legs apart, gathering one and lifting it over his shoulder so my pussy is fully exposed, impossibly wide, so open and wet and pulsing for him to fill it that I grab his arse with one hand, his cock with the other, and show him exactly where I need him to go.
The stretch inside me is matched by the agonising pull of my injured stomach. One fills me, one takes away, both perfectly matched as he thrusts, each push harder, more fulfilling than the last, tipping the balance towards my satisfaction.
“Pull my hair,” I growl at him, angry that he didn’t know to do it without needing the instruction, frustrated that he’s still holding something back in a misguided sense of chivalry when even the stupidest among us should know chivalry is dead. “Like you mean it,” I groan, disappointed by his attempt.
I grab hanks of his hair in demonstration, tugging until his scalp must be screaming at him, pulling until he growls at me, baring his teeth, finally putting his back into it, and dragging at my locks until the hairs are ripping out at their roots.
“You fucking slut,” he rumbles in my ear, leaping to where I need him to be, being the perfect gentleman by being anything but. “Is this what you’re dreaming about when you’re sitting in class with your knees clamped together, like you’re not dripping all over your panties, wishing someone would drag you upright, slam you over a desk, and fuck you till their cum shoots out your fucking mouth.”
I moan, almost curling over with need from the visual. Then he withdraws, sitting upright, grabbing my hair in a tighter fist, using it as a leash while he pulls me over him, forgetting any thought of injury as he feeds me his hard length, inch by inch.
