Page 39 of Wicked Games

My back arches, pushing my breasts into his face. He nips at my skin through my shirt. One hand moves down my arm and covers my mouth.

I gasp into his palm. The sensation crawls through me, fluttering and divine.

Unexpected, too.

When he lifts himself, he takes my wrists with me. He uses them to sit me up. Kneeling between my legs, he unbuttons his jeans and strokes his dick. In fast, jerky movements, he gets himself off.

I jump when his cock twitches and pulses, the only little warning for his impending climax.

Ropes of cum shoot across my belly and the apex of my legs. It coats my inner thighs. It’s warmer than I expected, but I can’t stop staring at his dick. He uses my forgotten panties to wipe himself clean, then tucks himself back in his pants.

He reaches out and picks up a lock of my hair. The gentleness of it freezes me in place.

“It’s always been us,” he says softly.

“It hasn’t. Itusedto be us. Now there’s nothing.”

“Prove it,” he demands. “Prove there’s nothing there. That you feel nothing.”

“Why does everything need to be proven? Why can’t you just accept?—”

He kisses me. I slam my mouth closed. I just let himhumpme into an orgasm—I’m surely not going to give in to this. His tongue slides across the seam of my lips, and I just press them tighter together. Not one to give up without a fight, he winds his hand through my hair, holding my head still, and he tries to get a reaction out of me.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat.

I give himnothing. I just gave him everything, and I am so, so tired.

“You’re killing me,” he whispers.

I meet his stare. We’re still kissing-close. Our noses brush.

You killed me first.

He releases me.

“I want you to hurt.” My chest aches, and I’d love nothing more than for him to know what I’m going through. “I want you to feel it.”

“You want an apology?” he asks, shifting to the side and pressing his lips to my cheek. “You want me to say I’m sorry and beg for forgiveness?”

I will not bend.

Maybe he can sense theyesforming on my tongue.

“It won’t happen, baby. We’re meant to be broken.” He takes hold of my chin, tipping my head back until I meet his gaze.

I hadn’t realized I looked away.

“You and I can’t do happy or perfect orneatlike you think you’re going to get.” His grip tightens. “Maybe you’ll see that eventually.”

“Get out,” I breathe.

He drops his hand and stands. “Dream of me.”

“I won’t.”

I don’t believe myself.

“We’re inevitable,” he says. “You’ll see.”

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