She seems indignant.
“Why not?”
I take her hand in mine, grinning. And I kiss the back of it, then her palm, then each of her pretty knuckles—punctuating my words with the press of my lips.
“Because these hands—these talented, beautiful hands—are too important for fighting. Too precious. They must be protected at all costs.”
“By you?” she asks, like a dare.
And she looks good enough to eat right now.
All over again.
“Absolutely. And besides—we already have a way to relieve your stress that’s so much better than fighting.” I brace my hands against the bag behind her, caging her in with my arms. “Want to work on that some more in the middle of the sparring ring?”
My desk is already ruined—I’ll never be able to sit at it again without getting hard. Might as well go all in with the rest of the place.
A bolt of heat flares in Abby’s eyes. She lifts up on her toes and scrapes my chin with her teeth.
“Yeah, Tommy. I really do.”
* * *
And that’s how it goes—smooth as silk and piercingly pleasurable and effortless in its simplicity. We meet up, we fuck, we dress, we leave.
Rinse and repeat.
Abby’s heart isn’t invested, but her pussy certainly is—and that keeps things interesting. Keeps the challenge and the chase invigorating.
Though she’s eased up on the scheduling aspect, she sticks firm to the other walls and parameters she proposed the first night of our arrangement—no emotions allowed. And that suits me fine.
At least . . . I thought it did.
Because while Abby and I spent all that time fucking each other blind, I’d forgotten that stunning, secret gardens have walls too. And only magnificent treasures get locked away behind brick and steel. And the greatest prizes are never easily won—they require seeking and searching and the scaling of obstacles. But Christ, it’s worth it in the end.
These are the truths that punch me in the face a week later . . . on the night sweet Abby’s walls come tumbling down.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tommy
I WALK THROUGH THE DOOR of my flat after having dinner at my parents’ house. Since I moved out, I try and get over there once a week to keep from being buried beneath the weight of the mother-guilt my mum rains down if I don’t. And because my family is a hell of a lot more entertaining now that I can take them in small doses.
I’m only just through the door when my mobile pings with a text.
Apple Blossom: I need to see you.
I smile—it’s like she read my mind.
Me: I’m at my place. I can come to you.
Apple Blossom: No. Stay there. I’ll take a cab.
Hmm . . . Abby’s feeling a mite bossy tonight. This will be fun.
In no time at all, there’s a rapid knock on my door. But when I open it, there’s no time to flirt or tease—no time to even say hello—before Abby has her mouth fused to mine.
Her hands are on my shoulders, tugging me down, and she’s up on her toes and her tongue strokes mine in a demanding, tantalizing rhythm.
It’s rough and unexpected and glorious.
I kick the door shut behind her and she’s clawing her coat off and tearing the top of her scrubs off like it burns. And then her mouth is back to mine and she’s knocking me back against the wall like she wants to suck out my soul.
I drag my lips to her ear, her neck.
“Easy, sweets. Slow down.”
I feel her shake her head, but she doesn’t say a word.
Abby takes my hand and presses it to her breast, squeezing her hand over mine, digging my fingers into her tender flesh harder than I ever would. She shoves my other hand into her hair, tangling it there and pulling—yanking. Her mouth presses harder, her lips against my teeth . . . until I’m tasting the copper tang of blood that’s not my own.
Abby wants it rough and hard—and while I’m always up for that, this doesn’t feel right. She doesn’t feel right.
There’s a desperation all about her. A frantic urgency that doesn’t come from passion.
It comes from someplace else.
I slip my hands from the death grip of hers and rest them on her shoulders, lifting my head.
“Hey.” I brush back her hair. “Are you all right, Abby?”
I want to see her eyes, but they’re closed. Her nod is quick, jerky, and her face is so pale it practically glows in the dim light. Then she’s climbing me, scratching at me, shoving my hand into her bra, scraping my fingernails across that soft, tender skin.
“I want you to fuck me, Tommy,” she whispers in my ear. “Hard. Make me feel it. All of it.”
She cups my cock over my jeans, rubbing and stroking with the perfect amount of pressure. And I want to go with it. My dick really wants to go with it—spin her around and tear at her clothes and fuck her rough against the wall just like she’s begging for.