Don't Kiss the Bride

I reach up and touch his cheek, running my finger over the dark stubble. He stares at me through half-closed, dark eyes.

“Try me,” I whisper.

Without wavering, I hold his gaze. Whatever he needs right now—I’ll do it. I’ll be it. He’s been my rock since the day we met—never wanting or expecting a thing in return. He’s not drowning his feelings in the bottom of a bottle on my watch.

Suddenly, his hand flies up and grabs the back of my neck, pulling me hard to meet his lips. He kisses me ferociously, his tongue carrying the bite of whiskey. He palms my breast, twisting, pinching, and tugging my nipple between his fingers until I cry out.

He pulls his mouth from mine. “Touch yourself.” His voice is low and raspy, and my clit quivers in response, like a dog to a whistle. “I want to watch you finger your sweet little cunt.”

It takes me a beat to recover from the scintillating rush of heat that ripples from my breasts to my thighs. His voice is sinfully sexy, and I hold my breath, wanting to hear more.

Still kneeling before him, I arch my back and shift my hips in a slow, seductive, sway.

“Say please,” I say, dead serious, holding on to my half of the control.

A wicked grin tips his lips as he reaches for the bottle once more, but I grab his hand and bring it to my lips, sucking his middle finger between my teeth, ignoring my germ and gag fears with every bit of control I can summon.

“Please,” he drawls.

His gray eyes flash with lust when I slide my hand between my parted thighs and finger my wet slit.

My body pulses with desire—incredibly turned on by the darkness in his eyes and the mix of raw emotion emanating from him like heat from a blazing fire.

His chest heaves up and down with deep, even breaths as he watches me, shifting his gaze from my mouth to my hand pleasuring myself.

I swirl my tongue around his finger and his upper lip curls erotically. My stomach shudders with anticipation. I’m surprised that the excitement of turning him on far outweighs my anxiety over having things in my mouth. Every hitch of his breath and spark of desire in his eyes fuels my newfound feeling of power and confidence. It’s addicting and intoxicating—just like him.

He pulls his finger from my mouth with a wet popping sound, and slowly trails it down between my breasts, past my belly button, and down between my legs. Moving my hand to the side, he pushes his wet finger deep inside me, pumping it in and out from tip to knuckle.

Grinding into his hand, I lean forward to kiss him, but he pulls away and rises from the bed, towering over me until he grabs my shoulders and pulls me up. He kisses the top of my head, then moves down to cover my ear with his mouth.

“I want you on the bed,” he whispers. “I’m going to fuck you until I can’t remember a goddamn thing.”

Electric tingles race down my spine as I climb onto the bed then turn to watch him step out of his jeans. My thighs clench at the sight of his cock jutting from his inked-up body like a steel pipe.

Sauntering to the edge of the bed, he wraps his fingers around my ankle, and lifts my leg up high to rest my foot on his shoulder. Staring down at me, he lavishes kisses up and down my calf, then reaches down to grasp my other ankle, flipping me over, legs spread, in a mind-boggling, lightning-quick motion.

“I don’t want you looking at me.” The anguish and self-hatred in his voice and in his eyes rip my heart in two.

Turning on my side, I reach for him, wanting to kiss all the hurt away. “Lucky—”

“Do it or get the fuck out.”

With a quiet nod, I flip back over onto my stomach, and he grabs my hips, pulling me up onto all fours and yanking me back to meet him at the edge of the bed. His hands grip my waist and he drives into me hard, fast, and unforgiving. Moaning his name, I clutch the comforter in my hands, head down, as he slams into me, his balls slapping against my wet pussy with each pounding descent. I’ve never had sex from behind, and it’s painfully primal but so intensely erotic. I don’t know if I should be ashamed or proud of myself for enjoying the raw, animalistic sensuality of it.

And him.

Breathing heavily, fingers digging into my flesh, relentlessly ramming into me, releasing all his pent-up anger, sadness, and guilt into every powerful thrust.

Is it toxic? Maybe it is. But that’s all right. This is what he needs.

What I need, too.

Connecting with someone doesn’t always have to be pretty and beautiful. It can be raw and ugly and infected with need. I want all of him—the good and the bad.