Page 116 of A Forgotten Promise

“Do I have a say in it?”

“No.”

Chapter 21

Corm

Control.

Fucking control. I’ve been hanging onto it by a thread. But when I cup her cheeks and seize her lips, and she whimpers into my mouth, it snaps.

I push my hand into her hair, fisting the silky strands with more force than I should. I can’t help myself.

I want to punish her for stripping me of common sense.

I want to hold her closer, because somehow, this woman became my oxygen.

I want to—need to—own her. Possess her. Protect her. Praise her.

I hike her up, the skirt falling around her legs as she wraps them around me, her hands frantically working the buttons of my shirt.

I grind my hips, hating all the fabric between us, but lost in the frenzy of kissing and groping and feeling her against me.

I told her I trust her, and fuck if I knew when that happened. She’s not a gambler. She has many issues, but gambling addiction isn’t one of them.

Perhaps it’s the relief that after days of wondering what snake I had allowed into my life, I now know my impression of her wasn’t a lie.

She’s the person I got to know. The infuriating, annoying woman who makes me feel alive.

Who makes me believe I can get past my fucked-up issues and focus on something else. A woman who keeps me on my toes.

And whose pussy is rubbing against my cock in a desperate cry for friction. For attention. And attention I give.

Finally she’s done with the buttons, and she pushes the shirt off my shoulders. Her touch on my skin burns, and I fucking want to go down in flames if it’s at her hand.

I pull away, staring at her, needing that one last confirmation that this is us. The genuine us. No more games.

She looks at me wide-eyed, bewildered, and so fucking beautifully broken, it’s like a punch in the guts. I let her slide down and step back.

Her chest heaves with shallow breaths. “What?”

“Your dress. Off,” I growl.

She pulls the zipper on the side down and shimmies out of her dress. No bra. Naked, and real. Fucking mine, even if she doesn’t know it. Or doesn’t want to yet. She’s fucking mine.

Roaming my eyes over her skin, I make quick work of my pants while I kick off my shoes. I take off my socks, not once moving my eyes away from her.

The unrestrained desire in her eyes.

The wanton curve of her lips.

The confidence of her posture.

I’m getting a more authentic version of her than what everyone knows from her photos. And this show is for me only.

It’s private, and after studying the facade she offers to the world—yes, I’ve been perusing her work—I’m pretty sure it’s genuinely true.

As raw as my desire for her.

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