Page 12 of Exclusive

Realization is a bitch.

A heartless, callous, smug bitch, laughing in my fucking face. Because she knows that I now know…

You’re always right… right up until someone proves you wrong.

I had it all figured out, down to a science, more than confident in my well-practiced routine and philosophy… until Sutton snuck under my skin. I knew exactly how to kiss, touch, and swap, give and take physical pleasure without everwanting or expecting more… until Sutton kissed me. Touched me. And gave more than I ever could’ve expected.

I had no doubts or questions as to my future, the path to travel in order to get there, and the precise spot that trail was always meant to end, until Sutton stepped in my way.

And I was absolutely positive of my choices, and that true gratitude is absent of sacrifice… until again Sutton entered the picture.

Sacrifice. Now, only now, do I truly know what that word, concept, means, because giving him up will leave a gaping, hollow void inside me that no one, or nothing else, will ever come close to refilling. Just thinking about it causes my heart to hiccup, my blood slowing to a frigid trickle with the lost heat.

He’s it, the one — Sutton Patrick Ellis — my ultimate sacrifice. Undoing. Crux… that I was certain my destiny wouldn’t allow to exist.

Jesus, he’s even infected my thought process, dragging me into “the deep” with him.

Gotta say, way back when, and the times JT would mention his ‘pizza delivering manwhore roommate,’ yeah… I was duped with some major false fucking advertising. I’d jumped unafraid and misinformed into lust with who I thought was a harmless, huge, hot “good time” … and ended up in love with a lethal, intoxicating, brilliant and caring good man.

Goddamn you, JT.

“Awful big sigh, Sugar,” Sutton murmurs, pulling me closer… and in deeper. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours? And before you say nothing, hear me, for once, please. It’s just you and me here, in the dark, hidden from everyone and everything else. Both of us aching inside, needing something from the other, something only we can give each other, waiting to see who’ll be brave enough to ask for it first.” He presses a firmly gentle kiss on my temple, leaving his lips to rest there. “You’re the bravest person I know, but, let me have this one. I’m asking, begging really. Tell me what you need Presley. Right now, in this exact moment, what do you need the most from me?”

“You already know the answer, and… it’s scary,” I confess with a whisper that catches in my throat, finishing itself as a shallow breath. “I broke, no, I let you break the golden rule, the secret to life. Know yourself best.”

“Pr-”

“It’s true, Sutton.” I stop him from trying to correct me on the one thing of which I’m still sure. I don’t know myself best. You do.” A tear sneaks up on me and slithers down my cheek. “You know me better than I do, and that, that scares the hell outta me. It gives you a power I can’t… I can’t let you have. Well, can’t continue to let you have.”

And yet again, I’m proven so very wrong, slammed with the knowledge of just how little knowledge I have… his growl, deep and depraved as he crashes his mouth over mine. The kiss is one-sided, his reckless taking, much like his hands, that lift and settle me astride him with no effort or permission.

Goddamn him, Goddamn his clever, beautiful, irresistible wisdom. Rather than trying to convince me with his usual pouring of fancy, philosophical words, he just showed me… I, too, hold power over him. The power to make him lose his grip on any and all self-control, manners, or good intentions. He would rather us be talking right now, working through my “problems,” but the savagery in his kiss, the tremor of barely-leashed restraint in his hold on my hips, and the huge, hard erection under my ass all show me that my needs — anything but words — prevail over his own, and that… that is power. On which, I will capitalize; him wordlessly inviting, encouraging, me to. Yes, I’m going to indulge, my own worst, greedy, enemy, literally basking in the very problem itself… what I needed most was assurance that there was a balance of power between us. And without a single word, he gave me that.

I pull back, lips throbbing from the brutally delicious passion in his kiss, and stare down at him. With the room dark, only a few slices of what must be a half-moon of tonight’s light slipping through the curtains, I rely on my other senses, unable to depend solely on what his shadowed eyes and expression are, or aren’t, saying. My body rises and falls with his every deep, labored breath, the desire he’s caging moving us as one.

Slowly, I hedge his shirt up, my fingertips worshipping the hard lines of his abs and chest. “Sutton…” My breathing, like his, is staggered, my voice a husky plea.

“Yeah, Sugar, I know.” He sits up, tugging his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. “I know.”

Of course he does. We’ve established that — so I doubt he’s at all surprised when I push on his chest, following him down as his back meets the mattress, my mouth replacing my hands.

A tiny whimper, the sound of my acknowledgement, that I’ll never find this again, blends with his hefty groan. Kissing and sucking along the eight hard ridges of his abdomen, thrilling as the flesh ripples beneath my lips, I caress my way up, circling each nipple with the tip of my tongue. The scent of Sutton is potent, dizzying… and only his — no other man smells of sex, sin, and sweetness like Sutton Ellis — red-blooded, clean, aroused man, and I’m light-headed from the aroma. He tastes of salt, sweat, soap, and scandal; a luscious mix for which I hunger. His neck, muscles bulging with tension, jawline, slight stubble abrading my tongue, hands, those big, capable hands, flexing in and out on my hips… he’s perfection.

My slow seduction, exploration, appreciation, is torturing him, stretching his will beyond its limits, and again, showing me just how very evenly our power over one another, is distributed. My man, who I can’t claim, keep, is denying himself… for me sacrificing. The irony stings.

“I need this.” It escapes me in drunken bluntness. “You. I need you, Sutton.”

He lifts a hand to my cheek, his fingertips rough, but touch smooth. “You have me, Sugar. Goddamn, do you have me. Always will. Always, Presley.”

The whoosh of my sad, selfish relief echoes off the walls — he’s not going to fight me on this — and he’s telling the truth. There’s no talk of what comes next, no speech on how I’m dodging emotional with physical. Not tonight. Tonight… he’s giving me full control.

And I’m fucking taking it.

I’ll beat myself up tomorrow.

“Stand up,” she bosses, her voice shaking with authority, as she climbs off me.

I manage to hold in the growl burning up my chest and do as she says, needs, but snatch back an ounce of supremacy, a damn important one, by turning on the bedside lamp. If she’s gonna boss me in the bedroom, I’m damn sure gonna watch her do it.

---