Page 216 of Branded
“Now.” She exhaled, started to reach for her dress. “I know I killed the mood, so we should just call it a night and?—”
I halted her with a hand on her chin. “Freeze.”
Now she inhaled. “What?”
I trailed a finger over her collarbone, dipped it down and used it to circle her nipple. “I have this perfectly good countertop and my woman just performed a fucking spectacular magic trick a couple of minutes ago.”
That breath slid out.
“See,” I murmured, dropping my head, and trailing my mouth along her throat. “I have this fantasy, and it involves a counter and my woman naked and?—”
She reached between us, pushed up slightly on my jaw, lifting my head. “You see,” she began. “I have this fantasy and it involves a countertop and me naked and my man thrusting into me hard and deep and fast.”
Blood boiled.
My cock got harder.
Slow disappeared.
Hard and deep and fast took over.
And…it turned out that both of our fantasies were the same.
Twenty-Eight
Beth
I was sitting in Raph’s bed, having somehow been convinced to sleep there that night, even though he wasn’t going to be home.
Convinced even after we’d gone back to my place for a change of clothes and my laptop so I could work. Convinced even though I hadn’t put on those clothes, hadn’t bothered for once to put on my makeup.
Because I didn’t need the shield.
Because he wasn’t my father.
Because…I’d had another nightmare last night, another dream twisted with a memory of my stepfather beating my mother. I’d woken up on a start, but Raph was already there, grounding me in the present, hands gentle on my body, voice soft.
And I’d told him what had happened.
Too many times to count.
I’d told him how I’d hidden and whispered about the thunks that I hadn’t understood were my stepfather’s fists.
I’d told him how my father was strict and stern, but never got physical as far as I was aware. Though, I had been young when he’d died, so there was a possibility my mother had picked poorly twice.
The first time, a man who had nearly bankrupted our family, and if not for the money from my mother’s family, then we would have lost our house—and no six-year-old should be privy to that kind of information, should worry about having to sell my toys to find a way to keep it. Luckily, we’d been bailed out by my mother’s family and then because my father had died, the excess spending had been halted.
Our house had been safe.
My mother and I had been happy.
But only for a short time.
Because then my stepfather had entered the picture.
Rich in his own right, he brought no risk of losing our home—in fact, he still lived in the house I’d grown up in.
But he was so much worse.
