Page 100 of American Beauty

His throat works as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He doesn’t answer right away, but his eyes darken, heat flickering behind them. “That would be a start.”

I slide my hands down to his chest, feeling the steady, heavy rise and fall of his breath beneath my palms. “We both know what you need. It’s what I need too.”

I clutch his hand, giving a small tug after I rise to my feet. He follows, his grip firm, like he’s afraid to let go. Without a word, I guide him through my apartment, past the wreckage of the fight.

In my bedroom, I turn to him, searching his face. His jaw is still tight, his shoulders rigid with the pain of everything still unspoken.

My voice is steady despite the pounding of my heart. “I’m yours, Alex… if you still want me.”

“Of course I want you.” His fingers tighten around mine. “I’ve always wanted you. I always will.”

I reach for the hem of my top, dragging it over my head before slipping out of my yoga pants, leaving myself bare beneath his gaze. His eyes rake over me, dark and consuming, but he doesn’t move.

“Let your hair down,” he says, voice low, controlled.

I pull the tie and pins from my bun, shaking my hair loose so it falls over my shoulders.

“So bloody beautiful.”

I step closer. “I want you to channel all of it––the anger, the hurt, the hate. Get it out of your system. Like you did in the back of the limo.”

His gaze snaps to mine. “Anger, yes. Hurt, yes. Hate, no. Never hate, Magnolia. I love you with all of my heart.”

Heart hammering, I square my jaw and lift my chin. “I know you love me, but I also know you’re angry. And maybe you’ll never admit it, but there’s a small part of you that hates me a little for what happened with Ty.”

“Stop calling him Ty.”

“Okay. Fair.”

“It’s true that I hate what happened, but that’s different from hating you.”

I place my hands over the steady, erratic beat of his heart. “Say whatever you need to say, do whatever you need to do. And when it’s over, it’ll be out in the open and we’ll move forward. We’ll never speak of it again.”

His hands grip my hips, rough and desperate.

“Give me the punishment fuck that you know you want to give me.”

He exhales, shaking his head. “I don’t want to punish you.”

“Yes, you do.” I press closer, tilting my head until our lips are a breath apart. “And it’s what I want too.”

I sink to my knees without him having to tell me.

The moment my hands find his zipper, the tension coils even tighter between us. I work it down slowly, seeing his cock strain against the fabric. His breath hitches—a low, broken sound.

I push his pants down his hips, the fabric sliding over muscular thighs, until they hit the floor. My hands glide up, slipping beneath the waistband of his briefs, relishing his taut muscles quivering beneath my touch. His cock springs free, hard and heavy, and my mouth waters at the sight of him.

“Open your mouth.” His voice is low and husky.

I do as he says, trembling with a mixture of anticipation and desperation. He guides himself to my mouth, running the blunt head across my lips, teasing me, punishing me with how slowly he gives me what we both want.

I lick the tip, tasting him, and a ragged sound tears from his throat. His hand tightens in my hair—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who’s in charge here—and then he pushes deeper, sliding into my mouth with a low curse.

“Eyes up here, babe,” he says, voice rough as gravel.

I meet his gaze, hollowed out by guilt and yearning. He rocks into my mouth, slow at first, letting me adjust, letting me take him deeper. His free hand cups my jaw, holding me steady as he sets the pace—demanding, desperate, a rhythm that speaks of all the anger and longing buried inside him.

Tears prick my eyes, but I take it—I take all of him, hollowing my cheeks, letting him use my mouth like he needs to.

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