Fuel the Fire (Calloway Sisters 3)

Before he rocks and creates that friction, he lowers his head to my cheek again. “Since time is malleable, this will last until I’ve watched you come so many times that you pass out.”

I moan again, the blood rushing out of my head. He thrusts hard. I cry, trying to grip the vanity for support. My fingernails scrape the wood. He thrusts again, and I’m already on the verge of coming. I’m so full of him that I can barely even move.

He bites my shoulder blade, the sensations driving me insane. He slaps me. He chokes me with the leather. He pulls my hair. He plays with every intimate part of me, thrusting against my ass, my love written across it for him to see.

I come, practically screaming into the tie, my teeth clenched down on it. He’s so quick, lifting me onto the vanity and ripping off my panties. He spreads my legs open and fucks me again, my wrists cuffed. His lips are above mine, and he lowers to them to kiss me. Rocking inside, further, deeper. The momentum and pulsing builds me higher once again. When he’s not kissing me, he whispers French between deep, pleasured grunts, some murmured rapidly in the pit of my ear.

I can’t translate any of it, my mind on a whirlwind.

We switch positions again, so he has access to my ass, and I kneel on the stool, forearms back on the wooden surface. He stands behind me, gripping my ass as he pounds. My whole body is paradoxically numb and on fire. He removes the tie from my mouth and then spanks me again and again, the sting mounting on top of all the others.

“How long…” I choke. I can’t do this for much longer. The intensity keeps heightening.

His teeth nip my ear. “Until you pass out.”

I pulse and clench, my muscles cinching everywhere. “Connor!”

He groans at my aroused cry, but he’s not even close to being finished. As my eyelids struggle to rise, he taps my cheek, not quite a slap, but enough to wake me up. My lips swell beneath his. I kiss him, and I fall into his possession once more.

* * *

My ass hurts from being spanked. I’m so exhausted and spent. That is all I think when Connor effortlessly carries me to our bathroom. I can barely hold onto him, but he adjusts me so my head rests against his bare chest.

Connor sets me in the tub, already filled with warm water. My sore muscles ooze and begin to uncoil. I think I even let out an audible sigh. I open my eyes just enough to see him. He kneels beside the tub, his lips reddened from kissing and his skin coated in a thin layer of sweat.

He strokes my hair back, gentle and caring. “How do you feel?”

I wonder what time it is and when I passed out. “How do you think I feel?” I know a question with a question annoys him, but it slipped. And technically his birthday has literally come and then gone, no more regurgitation of compliments at his will.

He grins, recognizing this too.

I bring my knee up, and my muscles scream in protest. I wince, and he leans over the tub and massages my thigh beneath the water.

“Tenez-moi,” I whisper. Hold me.

Already naked, he climbs into the large tub and sinks beside me. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and he pulls me onto him, until I’m half draped across his body. I rest my cheek against his collar, listening to his pulse slow in relaxation with mine.

After a few minutes of quiet, Connor taking care of my aches and pains with a softer hand, he says, “Thank you.”

Thank you. I try to translate its deeper meaning, but my mind has been spun around and fucked for too long. I fight to keep my eyes open. “It must’ve been the best sex you’ve ever had.” For me, it was in our top five.

“It wasn’t about the sex,” he says, so faintly that I almost miss it.

“What then?”

“You tried harder yesterday to please me more than you ever have, and…” He pauses in realization. “I’ve never wanted to miss out on rare moments in life, and every year with you, on my birthday, I’ve been escaping one.” He adds softly, “This was perfect.”

I begin to smile, clutching onto him more. “You truly believe that?”

He nods, the sincerity washing over his face, and then he kisses my forehead, leaving a warm imprint even after his lips withdraw. My eyes are nearly shut as he whispers, “And Rose?”

“Yes?” I breathe.

“I’m tragically in love with you too.”

[ 24 ]

ROSE COBALT

“We don’t have time for this,” I say pointedly, a phrase that flexes his muscles in annoyance. I straddle Connor Cobalt on my vanity stool, more in control and more unsure than I like to be. His semi-hard cock digs into my crotch, letting me know one of us is having fun.

He checks his watch. “We have thirty minutes.”

I inhale a breath of confidence and then scoot closer to him. His fingers splay in my hair, holding my head steady while my lips descend to his neck. His large hand practically engulfs the back of my head. His firm grip reminds me that he has some control here. It’s not all on me.

This lights my core, but it doesn’t numb the fact that my tongue is on his skin. I kiss him gently, not sure what else to do.

I’ve never really kissed Connor here, not like how I need to right now.

My tongue laps at his nape with uncertainty. He massages my scalp, as though to say, come on, darling in a caring yet fierce manner. If he could give himself a hickey, I’m sure he’d prefer that over me being hesitant and uncomfortable.

“Harder,” he demands. He fists a chunk of my hair and pulls. The pressure steals my breath for a moment.

I lift my lips off his skin, and a frustrated noise—like a dying hyena—breaches my throat. “This is a stupid idea,” I complain. “Teenagers give each other hickies. Stupid, idiotic, hormone-induced teenagers.”

I just feel so silly and uncertain each time I kiss his neck, my confidence depleting like some fiend is vacuuming it right from my soul. I hate feeling this way so I usually avoid the tasks that put me in this position.

Sucking on his neck until it reddens and bruises is definitely one of them.

“You just called Daisy stupid,” he tells me with the arch of one brow. She’s nineteen. A teenager. And like all of my sisters, she has absolutely no problem giving Ryke giant “pleasurable” welts.

I scowl. “Stop twisting my words. My teeth are near your neck.”

“Do you plan to bite me?” he asks seriously. “Go ahead, Rose.” He knows I won’t, so his smile grows and my eyes narrow. I want nothing more than to wipe his grin off his face. You know what…

I press my hand against his mouth; at least I don’t have to look at it. And then I feel his lips rise in a smile beneath my palm, but I don’t retract my hand.

“You should just give me a hickey,” I say. “Between the two of us, you’re obviously more hormonal.” I shift on his lap, referring to his erection that presses up against me. I don’t mention how it’s starting to affect me, the pulse between my legs beating in sync with my heart.

He lets out a ragged noise, one he tries to contain. His hands settle low on my ass, where my black dress rises, my bare flesh exposed. I drop my hand off his mouth, needing to hear his response.

“Your argument lacks evidence, darling,” he tells me, his palm dipping down my inner thigh. I snatch his wrist before he touches my lace panties to deduce how wet I am.

I am wet, okay. But I’d rather him not smirk in satisfaction. I am satisfied by the appearance of his erection. Let me gloat.

His brow arches again, more combatively.

“We don’t have time for you to gather evidence and cross-examine witnesses and consult a jury,” I refute. We’re supposed to be at the hospital soon.

Three days ago, Ryke underwent the liver transplant surgery with his father. Before Ryke was rolled away, he hardly spoke. He just said a few I love yous to my littlest sister and I heard him say one to his brother.

We all took off work and stayed in the waiting room. Hours later, we learned that everything went smoothly between the donor and the recipient

, and we could finally see Ryke. He was groggy and nauseous from the anesthesia, but he was alive and healthy, still saying fuck every sentence or so.

Since cameramen have practically set up camp outside of the hospital, eager for photos of the five of us entering and exiting, Connor and I devised a strategy to stir more media attention off Jane and Moffy and onto us.

A simple task: Get Connor photographed with red welts on his neck.

Only problem: I have to put them there.

“Let’s use makeup,” I offer suddenly. It’s the perfect solution. I almost swing my leg off his lap, but his hands tighten on my hips.

“The media may not care if it’s real,” he says, “but people online will be able to dissect the photos and discover a farce.”

My lips draw into a flat line, my pulse about to follow. How do I do this with confidence and without feeling like a sloppy, horny teenager?

Connor’s deep blue eyes fill mine, and then in a swift movement, he lifts me up in his arms, my legs around his waist as he stands. I think he may drop me to my feet, call it quits, but instead, he hooks his ankle to the vanity stool, dragging it halfway across the room. He stops right in front of our ornate full-length mirror.

Fuck me.

This is even worse.

My exacerbated eyes sear his skull, branding exclamation points across his brain. He sits on the stool with me on his lap, as though we’ve been here all along. He takes my chin in his large hand. “I’m going to do you first,” he says. “Watch and learn.” Those last words should sound condescending, but they don’t. He’s being serious.