He pressed his lips to my forehead, his mouth moving over it in a whisper. “Like death.”
Something like darkness spread over my bones as he cupped my shoulders and walked me back toward the bedroom. I didn’t resist. I needed this—to feel his skin against mine. Him moving inside me.
I’d made good progress with my therapist. We’d dug into some of my decisions…and preferences. I could now identify why I liked to be hurt in bed. It was because my expectation from my partners was so low, so incredibly nonexistent, letting them hurt me was a way to reclaim my control and convince myself that I’d wanted it.
I didn’t have that problem with Achilles. I knew he was incapable of hurting me.
He parted my lips with his thumb slowly, meticulously, making my pulse thrum between my legs with excitement. My lashes fluttered, and he pushed his entire thumb between my lips. I clasped my mouth around it, sucking hard, my vision clouding with a thick mist of desire. My legs hit the base of our bed.
“I want to suck you off.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“No.” His voice, brash and low, made my insides tremor, his darkening gaze caressing every cell in my body. “I’m done playing games.”
He shoved me to the bed, and I fell with a bounce. My heart fumbled like a bird trapped in a cage. His weight came down on me, and he pinned me to the mattress, the softness in his eyes threatening to rip me to shreds.
Intimacy.
Not sex.
This was what he wanted and what I was so scared of. It was one thing to admit to him that I loved him.
And another to follow through on these words and show him with my body.
Desperately, I reached for his cock, trying to set the mood and the pace. He slapped my hands away and bunched my wrists together. “No.”
I thrashed and kicked, trying to release myself from his grip. My pointy fingernails slashed at every exposed sliver of inked flesh. I drew blood and kept going, hoping to hit bone.
Achilles slammed my wrists above my head, covering my entire body with his. He was panting hard, and I knew it wasn’t from paralyzing a 110-pound woman. He dropped his forehead to mine, growling, “I’m not doing this shit with you anymore, Piccola Fiamma.”
I thrust my pelvis between us in answer, meeting his hot erection through our clothes. “Of course you are. That’s what we do. We hate fuck.”
“No more hate fucks.”
“No?” I purred mockingly, arching my back so my nipples grazed his muscular chest.
“No.” His voice sounded surprisingly somber. “I’m going to make love to you, and you’re going make love to me.”
I ignored the traitorous way my heart sped, careening behind my breastbone like an out-of-control vehicle.
No one had ever made love to me. I accepted long ago that I wasn’t worthy of any kind of normal love. My father tolerated meout of civilized necessity. My brother cared for me because of our shared past and trauma. Both their affection was laced with pity.
Achilles studied my face like he could read my entire stream of consciousness through my eyes. Normally, it’d unnerve me. Surprisingly, I found myself not caring if I bared my soul to him. He’d seen the ugliest part of me long ago and still thought I was the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Little Flame,” he rasped, in English now, which felt unbearably intimate and whimsical. “Let me love you. Show me every jagged, ugly piece of you, and watch me stay anyway. Iwillstay. But you have to let me.”
I stared at him, defenseless and tired. So, so tired. Of fighting this. Of clinging to habits that meant to defend me from a man I no longer needed protection from.
I burst into a sudden sob. Dr. Andrews had cautioned me that grief would pay me more frequent visits, now that I was finally facing my trauma. Still, weeping during foreplay wasn’t exactly the height of seduction.
But Achilles didn’t seem to care.
“Let it all go.” He slowly freed me from my shirt, jeans, and underwear. After removing my clothes, he kicked off his slacks, keeping the pressure of his body on mine, anchoring me in place.
I shook beneath him, my body wrecked like a ship caught in a storm in the middle of the ocean. He let go of my wrists, cradling the back of my head with one hand and wiping my tears with the other. He caught one tear between his index and thumb, rubbing it together into evaporation.
