Page 85 of The Secrets That Kill

He leans over me and bites my shoulder and kisses my ear. “Feel good?”

“Yes.”

“Hang on, Ivy. Time to ride.”

He starts to thrust harder into me, and all thoughts of humor are gone. It’s beyond good. It’s hot. I start pushing back into him, trying to reach for something, even as I try and grind against his hand.

And he lets some of his control go to take me harder as I start to come apart at the edges. I’m lost now in a sea of wild and erotic sensations. I don’t know where anything is, except he’s inside me where I need him. And it’s wonderful and I…I… Oh. God. A rolling wave of thunderous pleasure crashes over me, followed by another and another, each more powerful than the last.

I’m coming. I’m coming. My thoughts are a million miles away, an echo in the deep recesses of my brain. There’s just him in me and the pleasure. A deep, booming throb starts to rumble inside and consumes me whole. He clamps a hand on my mouth as I shake and shudder against him.

The orgasm electrifies me, crushing waves that quake my insides like they’re never going to subside. And then he comes. I can feel every drop of him erupt inside me. And it sets something off, another wave of ecstasy so intense I’m not sure where he ends and I begin. I don’t care. All I care about is this, him, and being lost in this wild world of carnal bliss only he can give.

We stand together, his head buried in the nape of my neck. His breath is even and warm against my skin.

My pulse hammers like a gong.

Wait, no, that’s the door. Someone’s banging on the door.

“Fuck, Ivy. That… was intense.”

Slowly he pulls out, cleans himself, and tucks his cock away. I do the best I can and drag up my wet stockings and panties, my legs wobbling to the point where they just may buckle at any second.

“Mercer—”

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

When we walk out of the bathroom, Melanie stands there, gaping at us. It’s pretty evident that she forgot what she went there to do. I don’t even have the energy to force a smile at her or anyone else left by the bar.

Mercer practically carries me out since my lower body is a mess of goo. I just had the most insanely intimate sexual experience, and in a public bathroom to boot. Mercer doesn’t stop for me to grab my stuff, and I don’t even think of it until we’re in his car. But I see my backpack on the seat next to me with no idea how it got there.

The drive is a daze, too. I’m still wrapped in a hazy euphoria that bursts into bubbles of something darker, lonelier, and pained.

Mercer doesn’t speak to me, doesn’t do anything other than take me to my room and turn on the shower. Then he leaves.

I stare, the last of the euphoria washing away and I’m just cloaked in that horrible, cold darkness. He could have at least said something nice. Something that could vaguely pass as nice.

He doesn’t like me. He’s using me because he wants to have sex with me, that’s all. And I guess that’s fine because I don’t like him either. I used to think I was madly in love with him and now…

Now I see little pockets of a man whom I might be able to like, or even love one day down the line. Which is crazy…

This isn’t about my complicated feelings, though.

This is how he can’t even pretend to give me a soft word after something so intense. Maybe that’s sex for him all the time. But I don’t think so. Oh, I’m sure it’s hot, and women melt for him, and he hands out orgasms like they’re candy atHalloween, but he is really into control. And because of that, Mercer Vale is the coldest person I’ve ever met.

I’ve also felt the heat of him, the strain of him trying to hold on to control. I think the way I react to him, he reacts to me in the same way. Like we can’t help it. And it eats at him.

And yet…he just turned on the shower and left like I’m nothing?

Worsethan nothing.

I stand on legs that still don’t feel steady, strip off my clothes, and get into the shower that he’s somehow set at a perfect temperature. It may be a little too hot for some, but it’s sheer bliss for me. Except the bliss doesn’t penetrate. Just the wretchedness of who and what I’ve become gets beneath the surface.

I feel terrible.

If I’d been forced to do that with him, I could find a place to hide, to lick my wounds and somehow gather strength.

But I wasn’t forced.

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