Page 126 of Threaded Lies

“This is all wrong, Rowan.”

My words encompass so many things. All of them are why she’s going to hate me when all is said and done, but she hears them to mean this, right now, with her dad in the hospital.

She shakes her head free from my hands. “Everything with you has been wrong from the start. Don’t you see that?” She kisses me again. It’s long and consuming and so fucking hot that I struggle with what’s right and wrong because all I see is her. All I want is her. She leans back and meets my eyes again. “But if you’re what wrong feels like, Holden, I don’t ever want to feel right.”

I hold off. Resist. Count in my head. Reason poorly.

And fail.

I initiate the kiss this time. My hands on her breasts and her pussy soaking my sweats beneath her. She’s cool skin and warm tongue. She’s soft curves and hard nipples. She’s what I’ve always wanted but never allowed myself to have.

She’s Rowan. Plain. Simple. Extraordinary.

There is no rush to our movements. No fervent urgency. We make a slow dance of pulling her panties off one leg. Of us lifting up so I can shove my sweats down so that my cock springs free.

And when she lifts up, when I grab my cock with one hand and line it up at the entrance of her pussy while fisting my hand in the back of her hair with the other, our eyes meet.

They hold.

And they never break as she sinks, inch by violently pleasurable inch, down onto my cock.

It’s the sweetest kind of burn. The most torturous type of restraint. The most intimate kind of communication where no words are spoken but our bodies and gazes are talking.

“Hold…” she murmurs as her eyes fight closing from the pleasure.

My god the woman feels incredible. Tight. Warm. Wet. Just fucking incredible.

I pull her head to me. I take from her lips. The kiss is slow and sensual as my cock remains buried as deep as possible in her. As her arousal drips down my balls and her fingernails tighten against the skin of my chest.

I can’t do this anymore when it comes to her—pretend it’s just sex without emotion. It’s the polar opposite.

Sure, I’m making her feel to help her forget.

But I’m also spiraling out of control.

Because all there is in this moment is emotion. All we do is feel. And not just the orgasm that we’re chasing. Not just the touch of her hand on my skin and her pulse beneath my fingertips. Not just the closest two people can fucking physically be.

There’s so much fucking more here.

We move in the quiet of my condo. With soft sighs and pleasurable moans. We talk with fingertips and angled hips. With stuttered breaths and eyes falling closed. With giving ourselves—every single fucking thing—and not holding back.

She takes what she needs from me. I take what I’ve always pretended I didn’t.

“Holden. Please,” she finally mewls, the tears still sliding down her cheeks.

“Take what you need, baby. Take my fucking cock and take what you need,” I murmur as my head falls back and pleasure washes over me.

Our orgasms hit. The slow build to the dizzying free fall that has her burying her head against my shoulder as I keep moving beneath her to draw out every last sensation for her.

To do what she asked of me—to make her feel.

And when I feel her teeth nip into my shoulder and feel the wetness of the tears on her cheeks against my skin, I allow myself to fall with her.

Off the cliff.

Into bliss.

Into her.