Even if it’s happening too fast.
Even if I can’t rationalize it away, and it’s most terrifying because without reason, I can’t fight it.
I plant my hands on the bed, curling my fingers into the faded, worn comforter. The room is sparse, like the rest of the house. Just a bed on one of those metal bed frames, propped up off the floor, but not fancy. Utilitarian. There’s an old wood nightstand to the side and a beat up dresser across the way and that’s it for furnishings.
It’s broad daylight and the blinds, which have a few broken slats, barely do a decent job at covering the window.
I can’t find it in myself to be ashamed, even as I spread my legs, presenting all of me to Gage’s predatory stare behind me. When I turn my head to glance behind me, I find him there, his entire body rigid, hands balled into fists at his sides, his teeth sunk into his lower lip, fighting with himself.
When he moves, the air in the room shifts. It becomes electrified, like lightning, the particles charged and vibrant. I react, my body going completely stiff like I’ve been struck by his lightning. I feel like I’m sizzling from the inside out, scorching, my blood roaring, my heart beating unnaturally fast.
His hands, big and rough and capable of the worst kind of violence, land on my hips with the utmost gentleness. Even when he curls his fingers into my skin, he takes care not to hurt me past a slight twinge of discomfort that mixes like a heady cocktail, with the pleasure spiking my blood.
One hand sweeps up, tracing the pattern of my spine, playing along my ribs. He cups my breast roughly, his hand scraping over the tender flesh and the sensitive peaked bud of my nipple. I let out a raspy moan when he pinches that bud and then twists slightly, so that the pain knifes down straight between my legs. He steps forward at the same time, ramming our bodies together. His erection presses into my back, throbbing and wickedly alive.
I wait for the familiar prickle of fear to spike my blood like it did in the past whenever I even stood too close to a man. All the times I was trapped in crowds, jostled, pushed into an overfull elevator. It was like bubbles in my blood, trying to reach my heart and stop it.
I wait, but nothing happens.
The fear never comes.
When Gage sweeps his hand from my hip down, to part my legs, when he smooths his fingers up the tender inside of my thigh, soaking them in my arousal, I feel nothing but fiery elation. He keeps tracing a delicate pattern until he reaches my weeping sex.
“Spread your legs,” he commands darkly, voice thick, right by my ear. “Take me inside of you and let me show you everything that’s possible.”
I shudder and my legs practically fall open for him. My body reacts to his commands before my mind even has a chance to process them.
He grunts next to my ear, his hot breath playing over my neck through the strands of my hair. His fingers continue kneading my nipple while his other hand traces the soaked, swollen folds of my sex. I spread my legs further in a silent plea and he gives me what I want. His finger circles my entrance before he slips it inside, up to the first knuckle.
I let out a harsh breath at the foreign sensation, but my hips wriggle backwards all on their own, grinding into him and bearing down.
“So eager,” he croons.
He tugs at my nipple, twisting hard, while his finger slips all the way inside me. He doesn’t give me time to get used to the sensations swirling through me before he withdraws and slams two fingers into me, filling me abruptly and deliciously.
Before I even know what’s happening, I’m coming. The climax is sharp and hard, with talons that bite into my flesh. I cry out and buck against Gage’s hand, the new fullness sending me into a downward spiral that twists and crashes over me. He doesn’t release my nipple, but plucks and twists it harder, so that the sharp bite of pain mingles with the sharper edges of pleasure, mingling in a vortex that renders me useless and liquid. I pant through it, riding out the waves until Gage slides his fingers away and brushes what nearly feels like an apology over my peaked nipple.
Gage falls away, his massive warmth never leaving me completely as he drops to his knees. He grips my thighs firmly and then his mouth is on me, feasting on me from behind. He licks at my dripping sex, his tongue swirling over me, collecting the droplets of my arousal like early morning dew. He eats me sloppily and messily, but I can’t bring myself to be embarrassed at the noises, because it’s so fucking hot that my legs nearly collapse.
“Oh god, Gage…” I hear myself, but the voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else, off in the distance, while I float and swirl somewhere near the ceiling.
“What do you want?” he asks me darkly.
The fact that his breath tickles my overheated sex nearly sends me straight into another violent climax.
“You want this? You want me to make you come again, all over my tongue? Or do you want my cock?” His mouth never leaves me, but his hand sweeps up my ass. I let out a groan when he spreads me and his finger swirls over my tight rosebud. “One day I’ll take you here. With my mouth. With my tongue. My fingers. My cock. I’ll take you in every way, in every inch of this house, because you’re mine.”
I should react violently to his words, to the ownership and possessiveness in his tone. I should hate it. I should fear it. It should set off every trigger that I have. I wait. I wait to feel it. The chains binding around my heart. The terror clogging up my throat. The cloying pressure that makes my heart stop and my head feel like it’s going to explode.
Nothing.
Nothing happens.
My heart beats fast, but it’s desire that swims through my veins, not disgust. It’s a heady, violent need that I feel, raw and exhilarating.
“If I’m yours,” I breathe, shocking the hell out of myself. “Then you are mine.”
“Makes sense, wife,” Gage pants.
