He tears his mouth away from mine long enough to whisper into my ear. “Tell me I can come inside you. I want you to feel it.”
His words strengthen the contractions of my body around his. More than anything, I want to feel him come inside me. “Yes,” I pant shallowly.
With a growl, I feel him stiffen as the first hot spurt of his orgasm fills me. Two more thrusts and then Nash slows his rhythm, grinding his hips into mine, rubbing me both inside and out, liquid heat spilling into me and out of me at the same time. The sensation is violent in its intensity. I dig my nails into his back to keep from falling off the edge of the world.
“Mmm, that’s right, baby. Feel it.”
His words are like gasoline on an already raging fire. They’re a physical touch that keeps me on the crest of swell after swell of my climax.
SEVENTEEN
Nash
I knew sex with this woman would be satisfying. The depth of satisfaction I feel right now—lying on top of her, still inside her, our damp chests clinging together—is just a testament to how much I needed this.
Badly.
Very badly.
I fully expect my desire for her to start tailing off. It always does. No woman holds my attention for very long, and it’s always strictly sexual while it lasts. Besides, I still have a feeling Marissa will remember one of these days. And when she does, when she realizes what happened, she’ll hate me. As well she should. It was a pretty shitty thing to do.
I guess it’s a good sign that I’m starting to feel bad about it. Guilt is a nuisance, but maybe the presence of it means I’m starting to remember what humanity feels like. It’s been lost to me for a long time, living among the animals. The criminals. The lowest of the low.
But I could do without the return of guilt. It figures that it would be the first sentiment to pierce my thick scar tissue, the only one sharp enough to penetrate my years of emotional exile.
Marissa wiggles beneath me, situating, settling in for a long snuggle. My immediate inclination happens inside her. Blood rushes to my soft head, turning it semihard. I’m ready to go again, which is not unusual for me at all. I have a very healthy sexual appetite and short recovery time.
No, it’s my second reaction that I find strange and bothersome. The muscles in my arms actually twitch and I nearly pull her in closer to me. That is very unusual.
Maybe it’s just the fact that I haven’t had any in a few weeks. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. I’ve just missed women close. Any woman.
That rationale doesn’t make me feel any better. It doesn’t make me any more comfortable with it. And still, I don’t like it.
Extricating myself from the tangle of our arms and legs, I roll to the end of the bed and get to my feet, zipping my pants. “I’m thirsty,” I say casually. “You want something?”
Marissa is sitting up in bed now, her arms curled around her torso, covering herself. Her expression isn’t as much wounded as it seems to be puzzled. I’m okay with puzzled. It’s the wounded part that bugs the shit out of me. I hate it when women get all pissy and hurt because I’m not the warm and fuzzy type. You’d think they’d figure that out within ten minutes of talking to me, but they don’t. That or they all think they can be the one to change me. But that’s just not gonna happen.
“Um, no. I’ll, uh, I’ll use the bathroom and get ready for bed, I think.”
I nod and make my way to the kitchen, leaving her to all her girly rituals.
I grab a beer from the fridge and take it to the sofa, intent on doing some brainstorming, going over my plans in case the Dmitry situation doesn’t work like I hope. Of course, even if it does, all the other pieces would have to fall together perfectly, too. And that doesn’t happen very often. So it behooves me to have as many other options as I can think of.
My mind is whirling away on the different pieces and players in the grand scheme of this tangle when an image of Marissa moaning beneath me rises up to distract me. I push the thought aside in favor of the faces of the Russian mafia members that I’ve seen. Within two minutes, I’m thinking of her again, of how soft her skin is and what her neck smells like.
I take another long pull from my beer bottle, examining it closely and feeling guilty all over again. Over what I did so long ago.
Damn, she’s gonna be pissed.
Maybe she won’t ever remember. Maybe she’ll never find out. I don’t know why I even care, but I kinda hope she doesn’t. It’s not like I set out to make her hate me, like I want for that to happen.
The swelling of my dick behind my zipper is making it impossible for me to think, so I drain my beer, put the bottle in the trash, and head back toward the bedroom.
Let’s see how willing she is to play along now.
When I get to the door, she’s just pulling back the covers to get into bed. She stops and looks at me. We stare at each other for at least two full minutes before she drops the covers and turns to fully face me.
I cross the room slowly and stop in front of her, giving her one last opportunity to change her mind. I thread my fingers into the hair at her temples, gazing into her beautiful blue eyes. When she shows no hesitation, no sign of resistance, I take her lips in a kiss that’s meant to consume. The problem is, within seconds, I’m not sure who is consuming whom.
* * *
I rub the thick, soft towel across my chest and down my arms, drying water droplets and thinking about how rested I feel. I don’t think I’ve slept that good in months. Maybe years.
Good sex’ll do that to a man.
I dry my abdomen, making note of the red line where I was stabbed. It doesn’t bother me at all this morning and looks to be healing perfectly. I continue drying.
The muscles in my arm flex, drawing my attention to the winding, scroll-like tattooing that covers my right arm from elbow to deltoid. I think of the significance of each band of swirling art and I hope that maybe, just maybe the days of not knowing if I’ll live to see my next sunrise are over. Maybe I’ll never add another layer of tats to my arm.
For some reason Marissa pops into my head. She’s so different from anyone I’ve had in my life for the last seven years. She’s like a reminder of what life could’ve been, what it should’ve been for me. And it’s nice to experience a little bit of that, even if it is too late and only an illusion. My life can never be what it was meant to be. My future is set to some extent. Inevitable. Unavoidable. Unchangeable.