Page 117 of A Love That Broke Us
I tell myself everything is okay. He loves me. He wants me.
I love him. I want him. Ineedhim.
But the way he touches me doesn’t feel like Jensen. And I don’t know what’s worse—that I know it, or that I don’t care.
His hand moves back to my breast, palm massaging, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. His other hand cups my cheek, and his lips crash into mine in the most possessive, all-consuming, fierce as hell way.
A fire burns, deep and low, and I cry out—his mouth and the music in the car drowning out the sound.
“God, you feel so good,” I breathe, panting.
He’s on cocaine.I slam the thought away. I don’t care. Not right now.
His mouth works its way down my neck, across my chest. He sucks at my nipple through the fabric of my bodysuit, the heat andwetness seeping through. He pulls it between his teeth, and a gasp escapes me, sparks tearing through every inch of me.
I don’t know what it is—the cab, the soaked-through fabric, his primal hunger for me, or my own pathetic need to be wanted—but I’ve never been this turned on in my life.
The cab pulls up to our building, and the driver clears his throat, loudly.
Jensen doesn’t seem to hear him.
“Jensen…” He keeps kissing, keeps sucking. “Jensen,” I say louder, pushing him away.
He finally pulls back, chuckling, and grabs my hand, sliding out of the car and tugging me behind him.
He moves fast through the lobby, practically dragging me while I scramble to keep up—one hand clutched in his, the other trying to cover the wet fabric of my top.
We make out the entire elevator ride up. His hands are everywhere. There’s no shame in his game. He doesn’t care if we get caught, doesn’t care if anyone sees.
By the time we get into our bedroom, my pants are undone and his shirt is off. He pushes me back onto the bed and yanks off my jeans, leaving me in just my bodysuit.
He flips on the lamp beside the bed.
“Jesus Christ. I love that thing,” he says, grinning, his eyes raking over what’s left of my outfit.
He lowers down and kisses his way up my legs, stopping at the snaps of my bodysuit. A low chuckle escapes him, his breath hot against me. I arch my back, hips lifting to meet him.
He bites the seam, popping the snaps open with the help of his hands. A finger plunges into me, and I moan loudly. “Oh my God.”
Then, his mouth’s on me—tongue licking, flicking—finger thrusting.
It feels incredible. My head spins, and I almost feel drunk. I get lost in the warmth spreading through my limbs, the pulsing against his mouth, the pounding of my heart.
I get lost in him.
He’s not himself.
God. Shut. Up.
I push the thoughts away.
A delicious ache builds, hot and burning, teasing me. My orgasm’s right there—so close I can taste it.
He curls his fingers inside me, hitting just the right spot.
A hurricane of pleasure rips through me. I cry out, my eyes squeezing shut, tears leaking from the corners.
He’s on something. This isn’t him.
