I can only nod, a breathy “yes” escaping my lips.
His hand moves from my ass, sliding up my side and wrapping around my throat in a possessive hold, his thumb resting against my pulse point.
He latches on, kissing and licking the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder. I shudder, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with cold and everything to do with him. His other hand slides between my legs, his fingers finding my folds, already slick and ready for him. He circles my clit, a teasing, maddening touch that makes my hips buck.
He pulls away, a wicked grin on his face. “Turn over,” he commands.
I obey instantly, rolling onto my stomach. He pulls me up onto my hands and knees and positions himself behind me. His hands grip my hips, pulling them back toward him. The head of his cock brushes against my entrance, and I moan, pushing back, desperate for more. Instead, he spits into his palm, the sound lewd and incredibly hot in the quiet room. He rubs the saliva, mixing it with my own wetness, making me even slicker.
Then he’s pushing into me. One long, slow, deep stroke that steals the air from my lungs. I feel bruised and needy, my body still tender from last night, but it’s a good pain, a pleasurable ache. I’m desperate for more. I need him to move, to fuck me hard and fast, to erase everything else with the sheer force of him.
He starts to move, his pace slow and torturous at first. Each drag of his cock against my inner walls is a delicious friction. I can feel every inch of him, the veins, the flared head. I push back against him, meeting his thrusts, silently begging for more.
He understands. His pace quickens, his hands gripping my hips tighter, the sound of our bodies slapping together filling the room, mingling with my ragged moans and his low grunts.
“That’s it, baby,” he growls, his voice rough with lust. “Take my cock.”
He reaches around, his fingers finding and rubbing my clit again. I can feel my orgasm building, a tight coil in my stomach. I’m so close, so close…
And then it hits me.
An insane wave of nausea that comes out of nowhere. It’s not a gentle queasiness; it’s a violent, overwhelming sickness that roils through my stomach. I gasp, scrambling off him, the pleasure instantly replaced by a desperate need to be sick.
I run, not even bothering to grab a robe, stumbling into the bathroom and falling to my knees in front of the toilet just as my stomach heaves. It’s painful, my body shaking with the force of it.
He follows me, his footsteps quick and concerned. He kneels behind me, gathering my hair back from my face, holding it gently away from the mess. His other hand rubs slow, soothing circles on my back.
“Millie? Are you okay?” he asks, his voice laced with worry.
I can only shake my head, another wave of nausea hitting me. When it’s finally over, I collapse back against him, my body trembling and weak. He’s a solid, warm presence behind me, a wall of strength in the face of my sudden, inexplicable sickness.
“Yeah,” I finally manage to say, my voice a hoarse whisper. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t believe me, I can tell. But he doesn’t push. He just helps me up, leading me to the sink and handing me a cool, wet cloth to wipe my face. He takes care of me, his movements gentle and sure, his face etched with a concern that’s so much deeper than just worry about a stomach bug.
And as I look at his reflection in the mirror, at the man who just fucked me and is now patiently cleaning me up after I was sick, my heart does a painful, terrifying lurch. This is so much more complicated than just sex. This is so much more dangerous.
“I need water,” I croak. My throat is scraped raw from the force of my heaving.
“Okay, baby. I’ve got you.” Liam’s already moving, his bare feet silent on the floor. I hear the tap turn on, the sound of water filling a glass.
He’s so calm, so capable. It amazes me how much he does not mind his nakedness, how he can move through my apartment with an easy confidence that’s both comforting and terrifying.He’s taken up space, and my body, my heart, doesn’t seem to know how to process it.
He returns, kneeling beside me and pressing a cool glass into my trembling hand. I drink greedily, the cold liquid a balm on my raw throat. I push myself up, using the edge of the sink for support, my body feeling weak and boneless. I need to see if I have anything for this. Pepto-Bismol. Alka-Seltzer. Anything.
I pull open the little white door of the medicine cabinet, revealing a collection of half-used bottles, expired prescriptions, and a stray tube of antibiotic ointment. And then I see it. A small, orange prescription bottle. Heat suppressants. There’s only a pill left. I make a mental note to get a refill today.
Liam’s voice pulls me from my spiral. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. “I gave Nimbus some water,” he says, his gaze soft and concerned. “But do you think you can walk?”
I manage a weak smile, the gesture feeling fragile on my face. “Yeah. I think I can manage that.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to try. In one smooth, effortless motion, he scoops me into his arms. I loop my arms around his neck, my head resting against his shoulder. He carries me back to the sofa and sits beside me.
He touches my cheek, then my forehead, his palm cool and dry against my skin. “You feel warm, baby,” he says, his brow furrowed with worry. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie, barely a whisper. “Just a stomach bug. Probably something I ate.”
I look at him, really look at him. His hair is a mess from sleep and our frantic activities, his eyes are still dark with concern, and his body is a landscape of hard muscle and smooth skin. He nods, seemingly accepting my flimsy excuse.
