I WAVER BETWEEN sleep and wakefulness, emerging from the best dream, desperate to prolong the delirious pleasure. Dream Oliver is back, and he’s kissing my naked body, each nipple, my stomach and then between my legs. Hot, sexy open-mouthed kisses...
I open my eyes, this dream so vivid. I look down, still groggy but rapidly waking with every zap of fire that knifes through me.
It’s not a dream.
Oliver is licking me awake. I groan, gasp, my head falling back on the pillow and my thighs parting to accommodate his broad shoulders. Then I look back down, expecting some wisecrack or teasing glint in his breathtaking eyes. But he’s serious, his stare intense, raking over my every reaction to the lashing of his clever tongue.
I can’t look away from the sight of his mouth on me. The heat in his eyes. The sounds of early-morning paradise beyond the window. My impending orgasm peters out—I’m in deep trouble, addicted to him, to his touch, now that of a lover. The best lover I’ve ever had. No surprises there.
How will I ever be able to stop craving this, him, when our every kiss, every caress, every intimacy answers a deep longing inside. A deeper connection with a man I already know so well. A complex man with demons and struggles, just like the rest of us. A man with a massive heart he’s too scared to trust.
Last night at dinner, I thought this was over. Being shut out reminded me of all the reasons I’ve fiercely fought my feelings for him for so long. His past with Slay as a role model, his rejection of serious relationships—he’s not ready to allow someone close yet. Perhaps he never will be.
My heart spasms, pain pulsing. I don’t want to be his fledgling foray into something beyond sex. I can’t afford to be the test case. I’m ahead of him where relationships are concerned and, after a few hard-learned lessons of my own, I know what I want.
But he’s still content with casual.
I need to be careful, oh, so careful to protect my heart. Focussing on the chemistry, the pleasure, helps. Because right now that’s all I can trust. All I can expect.
I cradle his face, my fingers tangling in his messy hair, my stare locked with his, and whisper his name.
Wordlessly, and despite my cry of protest, he takes his mouth from me and crawls up the bed, settling his hips in the cradle of mine and pushing into me in one smooth glide. My sensitive peaked nipples chafe on his chest hair, his piercing adding an extra layer of friction. I tug his mouth down to mine, our tongues connecting, surging, duelling as sure as the deep and sublime ecstasy of his penetration.
We don’t speak, but we don’t need to. His fingers tangle in my hair, cradle my face in his hands, his arm gripping my shoulders as over and over again he thrusts into me in watchful silence. But there’s nothing to say that we didn’t cover last night. We both want this. We’re both willing to endanger our friendship, both confident we can manage the fall out of this risky indulgence.
Oliver scoops one of my thighs over his arm and then the other, his hips sinking lower, closer, so that every thrust batters my clit until it’s all I can do to hold on to him and trust that he won’t leave me behind.
His mouth finds my nipple, licking, flicking, nibbling, and the flames start in the pit of my pelvis.
‘Oliver!’ I cry out with a desperate voice. That of a woman I no longer recognise, changed perhaps forever by allowing him this close.
Then he speaks at last, his voice gruff, perhaps with the first words of the day or just with the emotion I see in his eyes. ‘Say you’re mine right now.’ He clenches his jaw on the order, thrusting harder, deeper.
His eyes are almost turquoise with desire, more intense and serious than I’ve ever seen him, his ownership euphoric.
‘Tell me,’ he barks, his angular face taut with his own mounting desire. ‘Before I give you your next orgasm.’
He’s controlling this, us, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard him say. Because I am his. He’s taking me on a journey of discovery and I can’t deny him, or my own needs, even as I try to hold something back for self-preservation.
My breath catches. I want to give him what he needs more than I want the pleasure he’s holding to ransom. But I know it’s a reaction to what he confided about Slay. I know it’s not a lasting promise he wants from me.
‘I’m yours!’ I yell as he delivers thrust after thrust. Each blow devastates as I’m tossed over the edge into a rapturous climax, where my only awareness is how loud I scream his name and how tight I clutch him inside my body. He groans out his own release, collapsing his weight on top of me and burying his face against my neck.
I want to laugh or cry, but I do neither, because love, this fear of his power to hurt me, is no laughing matter, and I’m sliding, falling, being dragged under with every kiss, every touch, every orgasm.
No, that could all be lust, right? The inevitable side-effect of such amazing sex. Because I can’t love Oliver more than I already do. I’ll be torn apart.
My body grows restless under his crushing weight, fear snaking along my nerve endings, but I don’t want to move. I want to lie here and pretend everything is as it was a few days ago.
He stirs, kissing my neck and then rising to take care of the condom in the bathroom. When he returns, he’s donned his tight black boxers and hands me one of his white T-shirts. And everything seems normal. The new normal, anyway. No need to panic.
‘It’s a stunning day for a wedding,’ he says. ‘Come and have breakfast. I arranged it out on the balcony while you were asleep.’ His face is relaxed, open, but goose bumps rise on my arms. I’m reading way too much into that possessive demand spoken in the heat of the moment.
I shrug into his over-sized shirt, take his hand and follow him out to his bungalow’s private deck. We’re faced with endless ocean views hazy with the fierce morning sun. I take a seat, my stomach flipping at the fact that he’s been up early organising the delicious spread I see laid out.
‘I asked the staff to prepare a coconut-free breakfast, so you can eat anything you like,’ he says, removing covers from the food. My aversion to the tropical staple is well-known, but I’m still humbled that he went to such trouble. I tuck into some fruit and yoghurt while Oliver helps himself to toast.
‘So what will you wear today?’ he asks, scooting his chair a few inches closer to mine so that when we eat our arms graze. I force the mouthful past my tight throat, trying to pretend I haven’t noticed.
‘Um... I thought I’d wear a sundress.’ This new attentive side of him, one I’ve never experienced on such an intimate level, blurs the boundaries I’m trying to reconstruct around our new but temporary relationship.
‘Is it red?’ he asks, his stare full of renewed heat. ‘You looked beautiful last night in red. You should wear it more often.’
I almost choke on a piece of melon. It’s hard enough to resist flirty, playful friend Oliver, but charming, sexy lover Oliver is almost too much for my frazzled ovaries. My mouth opens, no answer emerging, because this Oliver—sex-rumpled, attentive and romantic—may as well be a virtual stranger. If I’d known this side of him, would I have acted on my attraction sooner, confessing that my feelings for him had transcended platonic from day one? Would I have demanded the number one spot in his life and not settled for what at times over the years felt like second place?
Precarious breath shudders out of me as I shrug.
History’s proved this privileged position of lover in his life is short-lived. As he admitted last night, he considers himself incapable of commitment because he’s Slay’s son, so there’s no future for us.
I cannot get carried away by his romantic gestures. We said we wouldn’t allow this to damage us. I have to have faith in my own abilities to stay grounded, and Oliver’s word that he won’t allow anything to break us. His over-protectiveness around his father is his way of doing just that.
‘There’s a swimming with dolphins experience tomorrow, if you’d like to go?’ he says, pushing a lock of my hair back behind my ear. Then he slides the plate bearing his last half-slice of toast in my direction.
I nod, close to inexplicable tears. ‘That sounds perfect. I’d love to.’ Perhaps it’s the emotion of the wedding brewing—I always cry at weddings. Or his gesture—saving me some of his food reminds me that my Oliver, the one I know beyond these wonderful new revelations, is still here.
I take the toast with a small smile. ‘Thanks.’
His easy grin is infectious, settling some of my doubts. If I’m not careful, I run the risk of spoiling the best week of my life by over-thinking. I should just enjoy as much time as we have and deal with the fallout back home in London, where I’ll be able to escape the daily addiction of him while we both live our separate lives.
‘So tell me about the Kimoto deal,’ I say, pouring some tea and taking a bite of his toast. ‘Any news?’ He’s worked long and hard on the artificial intelligence software this past year.
He runs his fingers through his hair and puts down his mug. ‘It’s with the lawyers, so I’m hoping for good news today. I should really be back in the office, but I couldn’t let Shelley down after promising to fly the wedding guests here. My team have everything under control. I just...’
I reach for his hand and he grips my fingers. ‘This deal is important to me. I take my work very seriously and I want Kimoto to see that. The last thing I need is Slay causing a scene. It almost feels like he’d deliberately sabotage this for me.’ His leg jiggles under the table.
‘Why would he do that?’ I ask, horrified that any parent could act vengefully.
He shrugs. ‘There’s no love lost between us. And if he can tag some mention of himself onto my company news...’ He smiles a humourless smile. ‘Part of me was naive enough to think I could have this one success all to myself.’
‘It’s a big deal for you outside of the financial gain, isn’t it?’
He nods, tension radiating from his body. ‘My team have been working on this software for years—they deserve to have their work valued. This will make international headlines for all the right reasons. And I hate the fact that my past... Slay’s reputation...might ruin that for everyone involved.’
‘You deserve the recognition, too.’ My heart clenches. ‘I don’t think I realised how much you’ve struggled with the two sides of your life.’ The self-made professional businessman and the privileged celebrity son growing up in the shadow of his father’s fame. After what he confessed last night, it’s no wonder the Oliver I first met was a little wild.
‘Perhaps this deal will put an end to those comparison stories,’ I say. ‘It’s not like you ever trade on Slay’s fame.’
His grin is wry. ‘I might have used that once or twice to impress women or get laid before I met you. And I fully admit I’ve done my fair share of acting out in the past, earned my own reputation...’
‘Or perhaps you were simply out-running Slay’s. From what you’ve told me, it’s doesn’t sound like he made any attempt to protect you from his fame or the excesses of his world, as some celebrity parents do.’
He stares, his eyes burning into mine, as if it’s never occurred to him to show himself compassion for being young and rudderless and making a bad choice.
‘We all make mistakes, experiment with who we want to be,’ I go on. ‘You’ve built a successful, innovative company from nothing. You look after your staff, attracting and retaining the best brains in the industry.’ I offer him the last bite of toast, even though there’s more on the table. Shared food somehow tastes better.
He eats it from my fingers, setting off delicious tingles of pleasure in my pelvis. ‘Yeah, well, the tech world evolves so rapidly, experience only counts for so much.’ He runs a hand over his face and I notice new creases at the corners of his eyes. ‘It’s a young person’s field—even I’m getting a little long in the tooth to keep up.’
I can’t resist a confirmatory ogle of his ripped torso, decorated with tattoos. ‘Oh, yes, ancient. You’re only thirty. And it may be a young person’s game, but you’re the one with the leadership skills and the vision to recruit those young geniuses. You’re the one who built on the success of Never Scan.’ I mention the software he developed at uni that launched him onto the path to his first million.
‘Well, that was down to you,’ he says, growing serious, his stare intent.
I laugh. ‘Just because I did your company accounts for a few years doesn’t mean I’m in any way responsible for the things you’ve achieved.’
His hand shifts to my arm, the slow swipe of his thumb back and forth sensual and distracting. ‘You’re totally responsible,’ he disagrees. ‘That’s why I named the software after you.’
This revelation is news to me. ‘But...’ I gape in shock. ‘I thought...’ I had no idea the name of the first software he developed had been named after his nickname for me. I’d assumed it was the other, more common, usage of the word because, aside from the accounting software he designed especially for my business, I have no understanding of what he does. Teasing me for my technophobia is one of his favourite pastimes.
‘You didn’t know?’ he asks, his eyes alight with mischief as he relaxes back in his chair, still gripping my fingers.
I shake my head, dumbfounded.
‘It’s true. You believed in me at a time when I needed someone. You listened when I spent hours talking about stuff I knew you didn’t understand, and you convinced me I was onto something worth developing. Encouraged me to not give up. I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be making billion-pound deals, without you.’ He leans close, lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles one by one, his eyes on mine. ‘That’s why I gave you shares.’
Pressure builds in my chest, and the hot aching in my throat and the sting in my eyes returns. ‘I thought the shares were a really nerdy birthday present.’
He laughs, tugging me into his kiss. ‘Well, they were that too. But you see how I know this, us, is going to work out? Because you know me. You see me, when most other people see my reputation and family notoriety, the fickle bits of celebrity that have rubbed off on me over the years from living in Slay’s world. But you understand that’s not who I am, and you still like me.’
‘I do like you,’ I say, my breath trapped in my chest, because the other ‘L’ word wants to break free.
‘The feeling is entirely mutual.’ He kisses me again, long and lingering and ending on a sigh. ‘We should get ready.’ He looks at his watch. ‘The bride will kill me if I keep her waiting because I’m buried inside you.’
The heat in his stare tells me he’s serious.
I rouse myself, needing a few minutes away from his all-consuming presence to gather my wits. Oliver in flat-out charming mode is dangerous for my judgement, because I’m becoming more and more ensnared in him and the way he makes me feel...special.
Oh, how bright and brilliant it is here in the beam of Oliver’s focus.
But special isn’t enough. I want to be everything to him, and he’s shy of commitment, something he’s never wanted or even considered, thanks to Slay. While I will always support him, can I invest time and energy into guiding him through his relationship phobia when I’m already so emotionally attached? That seems like the road to certain heartbreak. And given the depth of his commitment issues, maybe he’ll simply be content to slip back into his casual routine once we’re back in London and he’s surrounded by willing women.
I retire to my own room to shower and change for the wedding ceremony. I wish I could don a protective shell like the hermit crabs we see on the beach. Because my mind is foggy with Oliver’s shock revelations and the flares of hope they’ve sparked. Do I really know him at all? Yes, I know the playful, generous friend he’s been for nine years. But the man trying to outgrow his reputation and break away from any association with Slay—is this the part of him that’s always called to me on a deeper level? The part I’ve been waiting for?
I’m putting the finishing touches to my make-up when there’s a knock at the door.
My heart races with anticipation, because I’ve been away from him for thirty minutes and already I miss his company. Miss the way he takes my hand and does that swiping thing on my skin with his thumb. Miss his frequent passionate kisses, as if he can no more stop himself than I can. Miss those seriously hot looks that pass between us fifty times a day.
How did we look at each other before we began this intimacy? Will I always crave him this way, now that I know exactly how much more there is to lose? And can I risk exposing my heart to pain on the off chance he’ll one day decide he’s ready for more?
I yank open the door. Oliver stands on the other side, his hair still damp from the shower and his white linen shirt open at the neck to reveal a delicious triangle of tanned chest and a smattering of manly dark hair. In his outstretched hand is a single flower that matches the one he wears as a buttonhole.
The world tilts a fraction at the gorgeous sight he makes. I’m playing with fire, the flames already licking along my fingers. ‘Have you lost your key?’
He shakes his head, his stare raking mine in that way that reminds me of how he looks at me when he’s deep inside me, before swooping the length of my body to take in my outfit—a strappy, slinky sheath dress in teal, chosen for how sexy it makes me feel. For him.
Appreciation and something darker, more seductive, shines in his eyes. ‘Can I accompany you to the wedding, Miss Grayson?’ He tucks the single bloom into my hair, behind one ear and my core clenches with longing. I want to launch myself back into his arms, drag him into my room and keep him prisoner until it’s time to go home and put an end to this dangerous fantasy.
His fingertips graze my cheek before he drops his arm and he holds out his hand for mine.
Oh, no, no, no...
I’m in deep trouble. Every second I grow more invested is a threat to my very being.
But I take his hand without hesitation, trying to put all of these burgeoning feelings into perspective. We pad on bare feet down to the beach where his family is assembled on the sand at the rustic altar, casting each other wider and wider smiles, as if we have a secret. I’m caught up in the romance, only vaguely aware of Slay Coterill and his sixth wife near the front; it’s as if Oliver and I are sealed inside an invisible bubble, with eyes only for each other, the rest of the world shut out. I can’t stop looking at him—so handsome, every inch familiar but in sharper focus—and every time I do his eyes are on me, ablaze with hunger that helps to remind me why we started this physical exploration. There’s no place for my romantic imaginings.
The ceremony is short and beautiful. My hand rests in Oliver’s throughout, exotic but so addictive, because it feels like it belongs. And of course he produces a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket when inevitable tears dampen my lashes. I stop fighting myself, uncaring who sees our togetherness. People can think what they like about me, his friend-lover.
I dab my eyes, careful of my mascara, while Oliver tugs me under his arm and presses a kiss to my temple. ‘You are so adorable.’ His smile is indulgent but still laced with that fervent hunger I burn for. Because now he knows I’m no longer just his ‘sweet’ friend. I’m badly desperate for him.
I laugh, drying the last of my tears and handing him back his handkerchief.
‘I’m bad, remember? I want things,’ I whisper. ‘You, every way possible,’ I go on, the scrape of my dress over my distended swollen nipples excruciating. ‘How soon before we can sneak away?’
His stare darkens. ‘I want you too, but we have to make an appearance at the wedding lunch.’
I sigh but smile. We have time. Days.
‘An appearance’ turns into hours—photographs, a delicious wedding feast, toasts and dancing. It’s after a turn on the dance floor—a patch of the white sand beach under a gazebo decorated with fairy lights—that our escape is interrupted by Slay. We’ve managed to dodge him all day by avoiding the bar, where he’s entertained his audience.
‘Son! Come and have a drink with me and your stepmum,’ he calls, making a grand gesture with his outstretched arms and booming voice, so Oliver is forced to stop to avoid a scene.
‘I’m sorry,’ Oliver whispers to me under his breath.
‘Bring your lady-friend,’ says Slay, winking my way, then laying twin kisses on my cheeks before either of us can utter one word of protest or make our excuses. Oliver’s stepmother number five, who looks a couple of years younger than us, barely looks up from her phone.
‘Sid,’ says Oliver in a clipped tone. ‘We were just leaving, actually. And this is Neve.’ The term ‘lady-friend’ clearly upset him more than it did me.
Slay’s stare hardens at the use of his real name, presumably the reason Oliver used it. He slouches back in his seat, spreads his tight leather-trouser-clad thighs. His shirt hangs open to the waist to reveal a waxed, tanned torso decorated with ink.
‘Leaving this early?’ he asks, raising a near-empty bottle of champagne, waggling it at a waiter to indicate he wants a replacement. ‘That’s not very rock and roll.’
I rest my hand on Oliver’s rigid back, stilling him from reacting to the puerile jibe.
‘Fabulous resort, isn’t it?’ Slay lights a cigarette and squints at me through the smoke.
He’s not exactly leering, but I grow conscious of the strappy nature of my dress and the fact I’m not wearing a bra. My body grows stiff, all the lovely feel-good hormones of the romantic day draining away.
‘So, did you guys meet here?’ asks Slay, with an oily smile.
I step closer to Oliver’s side, my hand gripping his shirt at the small of his back—non-verbal communication that I don’t need rescuing.
‘Neve is a very old friend.’ Oliver’s voice is aloof, tension pouring from his body.
My insides jolt at Oliver’s descriptor. I don’t really mind that he introduces me that way, but Slay’s clearly never heard of me. Not once in the past nine years has my name come up. To him I’m just another of his son’s temporary women. And, like Oliver’s current stepmother, one of a long list...
I know Oliver said he’s trying to protect me, but I can’t help the tiny stabs of insecurity that rain down on me. Perhaps he doesn’t trust that I can handle Slay’s celebrity. Perhaps he thinks I’d become star-struck after all. Hardly...
But it reminds me of my place in Oliver’s life these past nine years, and it’s not the place I want. The place I began to dream for.
Slay seems to relish the discomfort he’s causing. ‘Well, don’t keep her all to yourself,’ he says before taking a deep drag from his cigarette. ‘It’s rude not to share.’ Something like menace or challenge sneaks into Slay’s eyes as he toes out a spare stool in invitation. ‘Why don’t you both sit down?’
It sounds like a dare. The air around our small group seems to freeze. The smell of testosterone emanates from father and son, each locked into a stand-off that zaps the atmosphere with animosity.
What the hell...? I’ve had enough.
‘That’s really kind of you, Mr Coterill,’ I say, coming to my senses. ‘But I have a bit of a headache. Some other time, perhaps.’ I tug Oliver’s arm, trying to drag him away from the situation, which seems to have made him furious.
‘Of course. I look forward to it,’ Slay says, ignoring Oliver, his eyes on me in some sort of act of defiance.
We’re almost back to Oliver’s bungalow, my footsteps rapid to keep up with his longer strides and my hand crushed in his, before I risk conversation.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ I ask as he unlocks the door and strides inside.
He tosses the key card onto a nearby chair, flicks on the lamp and pours himself a whisky from the mini-bar. ‘Want one?’ he asks, ignoring my question.
‘Yes please,’ I reply, accepting the drink and watching him knock his back in a determined swallow. Why the hell is he so angry? I’m the one who was passive-aggressively insulted and ogled by Slay and reinstated to the friend zone by Oliver.
‘I told you he’s an asshole. I warned you he’d flirt with you—with his wife right there.... And he’s an addict—he’s not supposed to be drinking. Now do you see why I tried to keep you two apart? He’s hardly the most flattering of fathers.’ He yanks his shirt off, slings it onto the chair and strides to the bathroom.
I follow, sipping my whisky to calm my nerves at the vision of his naked torso, tanned and tattooed, his jeans riding low on his narrow hips.
‘I told you I could look after myself. No need to go head-to-head with him. Don’t you trust me?’ I challenge, directing my disappointment away from the reminder that I’ll soon be back to my former role—an old friend. And it shouldn’t bother me, because I can’t allow myself to harbour my growing feelings. Oliver turns on the tap and splashes his face with cold water, one hand braced on the side of the sink.
I understand that Slay and Oliver aren’t close, but it seemed as if things would come to blows down there on the beach. If ever there was a way to land yourself in the news, it would be publicly decking a world-famous rock star. And why is he letting Slay get to him so badly?
‘Of course I trust you, although I don’t understand why you’re not running away from me and my fucked-up family as fast as you can,’ he says, drying his face with a towel. ‘But, if you’re staying...’ His voice ominously grows quiet. ‘I’ll defend and protect you any damn way I like.’
My pussy clenches at his commanding tone even as I say, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. How Slay behaves has no bearing on my feelings for you.’ I don’t want to add to his mood by addressing the fact that the father he seems embarrassed of looked at me as if he might be lining me up to be wife number seven. ‘And I’m tougher than I look.’
Am I tough enough? I should run, but only to protect my heart from a man who’s a commitment-phobe.
The real issue here is us—our unfinished business. The reminder I’m just one of a long list of women makes my skin crawl. I feel the need to mark him somehow. To be memorable. To stand out so he’ll never forget the madness of our holiday fling.
‘Fuck Slay,’ I say, venting my frustration that Oliver seems to be allowing his father issues to hold him back. I step closer, commanding his eye contact as I press my lips to the rim of my glass and take a slow swallow of whisky. ‘I won’t let whatever that was out there ruin today. Ruin us and the time we have left here. I want you. I’ve wanted you all day. I don’t give a shit about your father. This is between us and I’m exactly where I want to be.’ If I can’t have more of him than great sex, I’ll take it again and again as compensation. ‘So, if you’re so intent on looking after me, why don’t you do something about my current state?’
His face is tight with a frown. I hold out my glass to him and he takes it, knocking back the dregs then placing it on the vanity. His arm scoops around my waist, hauling me close so I’m pressed against all that yummy, pretty, naked chest.
‘Is that right?’ His eyes glitter, the romantic lover absent while his heart thunders against my sensitive breasts.
I trace the piercing in his left nipple with one index finger, rubbing over the barbell, making his abs contract and his hard cock jerk against my belly. Feminine power ignites in me, my limbs languid and my body temperature spiking.
‘Yes.’ I slide the finger down the ridge of his abdominal muscles, dipping inside his navel before unbuttoning the top button of his fly. My teeth trap my bottom lip as I look up from the trail of hair dipping into his waistband. I slide my fingertip to the head of his cock, feeling the tiny wet patch where he’s leaked on the fabric of his fly.
I lift his free hand from his hip and wedge it between my legs so he can feel the heat and moisture I’m generating. ‘I need what only you can give me.’ Can’t he see we’re all that matters? Can’t he feel how easy it would be to lose ourselves and block out the rest of the world, just as we have all day at the wedding? Can’t he trust that there’s so much more to him than being his father’s son and the limitations he’s placed around his heart?
‘Neve,’ he warns, his tone still brittle. ‘Don’t goad me—I’m in no mood to go easy on you.’
I tilt my chin, pressing my open mouth to his collarbone, his neck and his stubble-covered jaw. ‘I want you as you are. You know me as well as I know you. You know what I need, what my body likes, and I trust you. You’d never hurt me.’ I slide my tongue over his parted lips, my hand stroking him through his jeans so I feel the jerks of his cock that let me know my words, my demands, excite him.
I gasp, laugh, groan as he snatches his hand from between my legs, cups my face and pushes me back against the tiles, kissing me and then dropping his mouth to my breast so he can tongue my nipple through my dress. I yank open the remaining buttons of his fly but, before I can get my hand on his erection, he bunches my dress around my waist and drops to his knees.
‘Fuck, I can’t get enough of you,’ he says, his forehead pressed to my stomach, breath panting between my legs. ‘I should never have touched you, but it’s too late. You’re addictive.’ His audible, prolonged inhale ends on a groan as he buries his face against my mound and laves my clit through the lace of my panties. ‘I wanted to kill him for looking at you that way,’ he says about Slay.
My heart surges at the return of that possessiveness that weakens my knees. I spread my thighs to accommodate his broad shoulders and grip his hair in my hands, twisting the strands with enough force to tilt his eyes—which are impassioned and stormy—up to mine.
‘I wanted you to touch me. So badly. Only you can give me what I need, what my body craves. I’m yours.’ For now.
He seems to need my admission, his stare burning through me. ‘Fuck yes, you are.’ He groans, sliding the crotch of my underwear aside so he can put his mouth on me in that way I’ve come to expect—hot, greedy, carnal. I throw one leg over his shoulder, digging my heel into his back as his tongue spears me, his big hands filled with the cheeks of my arse, and I cry out, my head thumping the wall behind.
His tongue lashes my clit, alternating with deep plunges inside. I grip his hair and ride his face, desperate now for the orgasms he can deliver. Desperate to come for him and desperate for more. For it all. Because this isn’t going away. This need isn’t diminishing. And if I glut myself now, take all I can have of him, perhaps I’ll be able to live off the memories when it ends.
I’m skirting the cusp of my climax when he slides his fingers inside me, two, three, stretching me. Plunging. I cry out in despair when his fingers leave me and I glare down at him, about to demand he put them back when I feel him probe my rear with his moisture-slicked fingers.
I stare into his fierce eyes, and a gasp rips from my throat at the foreign, thrilling contact. He watches my reaction, his mouth quirking a fraction, his groan of praise weakening my knees. Because I’m his, whether I like it or not. Whether he thinks he deserves me or not. And I trust him with my body, my pleasure, my life.
He’s shown me what I’m capable of, shown me how well he knows me. And I want this, want him all the ways I can have him until my time is up.
But I also want to undo him. To take him on this roller coaster of need right alongside me. ‘Oliver,’ I say, gripping his face while he eats at me. ‘That feels so good, but I want your cock in me.’
He pulls his mouth from me, his fingers still working in my crease, massaging, gliding over my sensitive rear, waking up nerve endings I didn’t know I possessed.
‘Say it again,’ he grinds out, his voice breaking. ‘Say you’re mine and I’ll give you my cock. I’ll make you come.’
‘I’m yours,’ I say, the words heavier every time I speak them. But I can’t focus on the future, not when I want to burn in every present moment with him.
He rises to his feet, shucking his jeans and boxers and kicking them away, then he stands naked before me, his fist wrapped around his glorious penis, sliding and tugging his long length. Taunting me. I whimper at the sight. Slide my dress from my shoulders where it pools at my feet.
‘Leave the thong on,’ he commands, and I’m past caring that I’m half-in half-out of my underwear. I grip his hips and pull him close. ‘I’m yours,’ I whisper against his lips, which smell of my own arousal. ‘What are you going to do with me?’ I ask, before sliding my mouth to his nipple and gently tugging on the piercing with my teeth.
He grunts, his fingers digging into my hips as he spins me around so I’m in front of him, facing the sink, and his cock glides between my arse cheeks, the wet tip nudging the small of my back.
Our reflections stare back at us. Him a tall, bronzed god and me flushed pink with lust and longing. And something else. Something too terrifying to name, because it mustn’t be true. I mustn’t let it be.
‘Bend over,’ he says.
I obey, bracing my hands on the edge of the vanity, my focus on breathing, an act which should be automatic but feels precarious. He leans over my back, his scruff scraping at my neck and the juncture of my shoulder as his hands cup my breasts.
His thumbs rub my nipples and I cry his name. ‘There’s a condom in my wash bag there,’ he says, sucking on my skin and sliding one hand back to my slick clit. ‘Get it.’
I fumble in my haste, and when I locate the foil square I feel the nip of his teeth against my skin, as if he’s reached his limit.
He sheathes himself quickly and then his stare meets mine in the mirror. We’re both panting hard with anticipation and, just like our first time together, I marvel at his stamina, because I’m achy, needy, empty and ready to beg, to end this torture of wanting.
‘Oliver...’ I spread my legs in invitation, tilting my hips back. ‘I want to be yours, to be bad for you.’
His eyes are so dark, so hooded, I can’t make out the blue any longer.
‘Even if I ruin you?’ he asks, his fingers still strumming between my legs.
‘Yes.’ I don’t hesitate. But he could never ruin me.
His nostrils flare and his jaw bunches as he seems to wrestle with my declaration. He looks down, strokes my back as if with reverence, and then slides my thong from between the cheeks of my arse. He positions himself at my slick entrance and then grips my shoulder in one hand, surging forward on a single, delicious thrust that has me rising up onto tiptoes to accommodate him.
His thrusts knock me forward. I lock my arms and push back, each slap of his thighs against mine thrilling and, oh, so debauched. He releases my hip, his fingers coming between my legs from the front to collect some of the moisture coating me, and then he returns those wicked fingers to my rear.
‘Do you like this? Is this what you want?’ he asks.
‘Oliver, yes...’ I mewl, my back arching as he strokes with increased pressure over my pucker.
‘Rub your clit,’ he barks, his face almost unrecognisable with the violence of his arousal.
I do his bidding with a helpless yelp, my fingers sliding around the base of his thrusting cock and then rubbing over my engorged, needy clit.
We lock eyes in the mirror, so many unspoken words passing between us in silent communication. I rub hard, so close to climaxing now I’m full of him.
‘I trust you,’ I say, because I want to give him all of me, but I can’t trust myself that I won’t fall so hard, so deep, that I’ll never be the same.
At my words his fingers dig into my shoulder, his thrusts deeper, and he presses a fingertip into my rear.
I’m tossed into an orgasm so profound, I’m vaguely aware of screaming his name and of his own shout of unrestrained pleasure before the world seems to go black, my five fingers clinging to the edge of the vanity being my only grip on sanity.
Oliver leaves my body, tugging me into his arms and sliding us to the bathroom tiles. His kisses pepper my face, my closed eyelids, his gusting breath telling me he too is still reeling. He holds me tight, his arms possessive around my waist.
‘You’re mine,’ he whispers against my temple. ‘Mine.’