My skin feels tight and hot, like I’m boiling from the inside out. I want to run. I want to get out of there, to save myself, to salvage the scraps of my shredded dignity that I’m barely holding together, but his hand descends on my neck, hard, calloused, unbearably hot. I’m nothing, like a seed tossed about in the wind, unable to fight him, as he tugs me roughly into his granite chest.
My hands splay across the soft black cotton of his t-shirt and I let out a breathy sounding gasp when the heat of him bleeds into my fingers and up my arms.
When he bends his head, I come unraveled, and stupidly, so very stupidly, when his hands tangle in my hair, tugging painfully, I give in and give him what he wants, tilting my face up.
His face is screwed up with doubt and uncertainty. Regret is painted across his features like a work of art. He hesitates for just a second before he slams his mouth to mine and plunders the air from my lungs before I even have time to let out a startled gasp.
Chapter 8
Gage
Ihate her. I hate this woman. I hate that she means something to me, even when she shouldn’t. I hate that I’ve never been able to wash my hands—or my heart—clean of her. I hate that even now, even after I’ve vowed to hate her and send her on her way, seeing the undisguised pain and regret flickering on her face, her bleeding heart laid bare for just a split second before she grabbed those fucking papers again, I hate that I’m lost.
Helpless.
That I can’t stop myself from doing what I’ve wanted to do since I first saw her on our wedding day.
I want to plunge my face into the sensitive crook of her neck and inhale her sweet, feminine scent. I want to know what her arousal smells like. Tastes like. I want to know the silk of her skin beneath my rough fingertips. The many ways that her body plus mine would equal pleasure.
I take my fill of her mouth with a kiss that is punishing, angry, aggressive. I demand all of her, that she yield to me, that she finally, finally be mine. I want her surrender. Her hands splayed across my chest, her hot, breathy pants against my mouth. They’re just a start.
I twine my fingers in her hair, tugging hard so that her neck snaps back and gives me better access to her mouth. My tongue sweeps in and tangles with hers, tasting her, strokingher, owning her. She moans and her hips thrust against mine, grinding, searching for relief from a burn she’d probably never admit to even feeling.
She’s sweet and soft. Her curves feel like heaven against the hard steel of my body. I’ve imagined her like this, fucking dreamed of her like this—pliant, lush, responsive, panting and writhing with the force of her lust, her skin hot and sweaty against my own.
My hand wraps around her waist, so narrow that I could probably encircle it with both hands. I sweep it lower, over the cotton covered swell of her ass. I grip her hard as I plunder her mouth roughly, bruising her lips. My hand sweeps lower, to the bare skin of her thigh and I can’t suck back a groan. She swallows it down as her tongue sweeps out, trying to push through the seam of my lips. I deny her, suck her bottom lip into my mouth, and nip it hard in response.
She mewls and rocks into me and I let my hand blaze a rough path up her silky thigh. I push the hem of her dress up and trail my fingers over the edge of her panties. They’re soft. Cotton. I imagine what she’d look like wearing just them, how I’d rip them off of her with my teeth before I feasted on her sweet cunt. I let out a groan and boldly stroke my fingers over her panties, tracing the wetness spreading over the center, over her folds and then gently along her slit, where she’s wettest, tracing her from front to back.
She lets out a strangled sound that I mistake for unfettered pleasure, but then she jerks away, ripping out of my hands. Her mouth tears from mine and the second the sweet heat of her lips leave, I feel that absence like a brutal loss. It’s like someone just kicked me in the stomach.
She stumbles back, eyes wide, her lips a shocking cherry color and not because of the lipstick that I chewed off within five seconds of capturing her mouth. Her eyes are wide, her pupils blown, her cheeks flushed, her hair mussed. She looks every bit a sexually charged creature, but her eyes aren’t wide with satisfaction or lust. They’re misting over with horror.
Her nostrils flare and mine echo the motion. I scent the fear in the air between us. I’m not the kind of man to feed off of it. I’m not a clean cut bastard by any means, but I’m also not a sick fuck. I was raised rough by people who should have done and known better. I’m not the beast they should have turned me into. I’m no monster and those tears that flood her eyes and trickle down cheeks that are suddenly ashen, tear at my insides.
I should hate her.
I should, but at the moment, I can’t find it in myself.
“This was a mistake,” she whispers, in a heart wrenchingly shattered voice. “I can’t do this.” She raises a hand to her trembling lips and blinks, like she just noticed me still standing there. “I’m sorry.”
She darts past me, a blur of black as she stoops to pick up the papers that I so carelessly discarded on the floor. She rams them into the tote she goes for next, then whirls, gripping it against her shoulder, her knuckles white, like it’s a lifeline and she’s going to sink without it.
“I can’t, Gage… You deserve better. You always deserved better.” She shakes her head, more tears brimming and spilling down her ghost white cheeks.
I can’t let her go. Not like this. I know if she walks out that door that I’ll never see her again. That she’ll never come back toHelena. I don’t want to lose her again, even if I never really had her in the first place.
She tries to slip past me and I reach out blindly, grabbing onto her upper arm. I curl my fingers like steel, but relax them the second she hisses as they bite into her skin through her too thin cardigan. She’s a mess, but she’s a hot mess. One that I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from or actually form coherent words. I stare into her dark eyes, trying to convey some kind of message, one that I’ve never been able to find language to express.
“Is it just your husband that you won’t let touch you, or is it everyone? How many, Ami. I want to know. Is there someone else now? Is that why you’ve finally come back with these papers?”
It’s not what I want to say, and I despise myself when her face crumples. She sucks in a steadying breath, though, and tries to tug her arm free. Because I’m a bastard, I dig my fingertips in a little harder. Her lips thin out into a hard line and as always, she defies me by staying silent. I barely refrain from shaking her, sure that there is someone. A man. Out there. Waiting for her. Probably some punk who thinks he can make her happy. A man she’s let into her house, her bed, her life, her heart. All while she cut me out. I’m nothing, nothing more than trash or a bug she can cruelly step on and grind into the sole of her shoe. I’m her past, an annoyance, a loose end that she needs to deal with to be free.
Anger steals my breath, and I speak before I think. “Bring your papers over here tomorrow night. Same time. I’ll sign them then. I don’t need to stay married to a woman who hates me. A coward and a whore.”
The transformation that she undergoes is shocking. Her shoulders straighten, her spine snaps up and her head rears back. She rips her arm from my grip with a savageness that surprises even me.
“Why won’t you sign them now?” she snaps, striding back a step, out of my reach.