He pushes into me a little faster, a little harder, lightly fisting my hair.
“That. More that.”
Another hard thrust, deeper this time, hitting that spot inside me that makes lights explode behind my eyelids.
“Tell me how you like it,” he demands.
I gasp for air, losing myself in the feel of him inside me.
“Hard. Faster. Rough. I love it when you’re rough with me.”
He pulls my hair, hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. Yes. It’s exactly what I want.
“Yes,” I encourage him.
Grabbing my left ankle and setting it up on his shoulder so I’m stretched even wider for him, Armani rams into me, fucking me so hard that the bedframe knocks the wall. Once he unleashes, he doesn’t stop. Biting my neck, tugging my hair, holding me in place as he fucks me. When he pinches my clit, my moans pitch even higher. Pleasure and pain mix together, a heady and potent combination. I love this. And he knows it.
“So good,” I pant. “Fuck, you’re so good.”
“You’re perfect for me,” he grunts.
“I know,” I say. Because it’s true—I know I am. And I also know that he likes it rough, too.
“Perfect,” he repeats, chanting as he thrusts. “Perfect, perfect, perfect.”
He might as well be talking dirty, because the admission sends me right over the edge. Throwing my head back, I cry his name as I come, wrapping both of my legs tight around his waist and pulling him as deep inside me as possible. As my pussy pulses around him, he spills into me with a groan, thrusting hard a few more times until we both sink heavily into the mattress.
He rolls onto his side to face me, still breathing hard. I stroke his jaw with my thumb, feeling possessive as I admire him from head to toe.
This is my man. All mine. Powerful, dangerous, and hot as fuck.
“How’s the foot?” he asks.
I sit up and check my stitches. They’re perfectly intact, though the wound is a little sore.
“All good,” I say, crawling over to him and dropping a kiss onto his lips.
He turns so he’s on his back and then pulls the blankets up and over us.
In typical male fashion, he’s asleep in minutes, the post-coital comedown knocking him out. But my brain won’t quiet down. And the dang lights are still on.
Carefully easing out of bed, I gingerly make my way toward the light switch by the door. But a few steps in, I almost trip over Armani’s pants, sending something skittering across the floor.
“What the—”
I kneel down and pick up the object. It’s heavy, black, made of hard plastic. At first I think it’s a walkie-talkie, since it has a short, stubby antenna sticking up from the top of it. But upon further inspection, I see the keypad with numbers on it, the small screen, the little USB port…and I realize it’s a phone. A fucking satellite phone. My heart starts to pound. He’s had this thing all along, hasn’t he?
Which means he lied to me about being able to make calls from here on the island.
And yet.
The anger I’m expecting to rise up in me like a blazing inferno just doesn’t make an appearance. I’m a bit annoyed at Armani, but am I mad?Reallymad? I don’t know.
I look over my shoulder at Armani. He’s still asleep, but I watch him for a moment to be sure. And, yeah. He’s out. I could easily sneak away with this phone and call Juliana right now.
Except I don’t think I need rescuing anymore. At this point in the game, I no longer believe that Armani wants to get rid of me. I no longer believe I was ever truly in danger from him. So the fact that I haven’t been able to call Juliana up until now…it doesn’t bother me that much. I’m not even sure I still feel the need to talk to her. There’s no urgency.
A few more seconds of staring at the phone in my hand is enough to make me realize that I’d much rather be warm and safe in bed with Armani’s arms around me than hiding out in a linen closet down the hall trying to make contact with my former best friend. So I put the phone back in the pants pocket where it came from, turn off the lights, and then climb back under the covers next to my husband.
