And indulging in a little self-torture, like picturing her in here with him, kept me hot and on edge. I liked that, because I liked who I was. It made me strong. Would giving in to her change me?

“I like to hurt myself,” I told her. “I need this. Now take off your clothes and get in his bed.”

“Michael,” she breathed out, trying to argue.

But I just stood there like a wall, unbending.

Her chest rose and fell hard, but she calmed her features and squared her shoulders, looking back up at me.

Her mouth twisted in anger, but her eyes turned bold as she tore off her clothes and pulled down her panties, stepping out of them and walking to the bed.

My heart started to beat faster, and I folded my arms over my chest, trying to stay hard.

She pulled back the covers, her long, blonde hair flowing down her back, and climbed in. She laid down, pulling the forest green sheet up to her waist and leaving her breasts uncovered.

Resting a hand behind her head, she looked at me, her big eyes taunting me as her other hand rested on her bare stomach. She looked so fucking soft and warm and perfect.

He’d seen her like this. He’d laid next to her like this, and regret wracked though me, not because of the picture before me, but because it should never have been him. I could’ve had her—her first time, everything—and I let her go three years ago.

If it weren’t for me, she would never have turned to him.

What the hell was the matter with me? Was all the power I felt pretending like she didn’t exist greater than how fucking good she felt when I had her in my arms?

No. Not even close.

She cocked her head, her eyes pooling with tears. “I’m in his bed,” she pointed out. “You’re not going to do anything about it this time? I can moan his name or….maybe tell you about the four times in our months together that I let him have me, and how I tried so hard not to picture it being you.”

The blue of her eyes glistened and shook as tears started to spill down her temples into her hair.

“Maybe you’d like more of a visual instead?” she asked.

She sat up, pulling the pillow down, and swinging her leg over it, straddling it.

Rolling her hips, she began to ride the pillow like it was Trevor underneath her, tilting her head back and moaning.

Her beautiful, round ass grinded into the fabric, her back arching as she picked up pace, while her hair swayed against her back.

Pain shot through my chest, and my fists clenched.

“Rika,” I murmured, feeling like I’d lost her.

But then she groaned and whispered, “Michael.”

And I narrowed my eyes, inching up the bed to see her face.

Her eyes were closed, and she let out a hard breath, a small smile crossing her face as she rode the pillow. “Michael.”

She picked up the pace, grinding harder and faster, her tight stomach waving in and out, and her full breasts swaying with her movements.

She grunted as her dry-fucking grew more rigorous, and her face tightened in pain as she rode harder and harder. “Oh, God. Oh, fuck.”

And Trevor was gone. He wasn’t in the room anymore.

She was mine.

I unfastened my belt and dropped my jeans to the floor, kneeling behind her on the bed.

I lost track of what the score was, whose move it was, or what game we were even

Tags: Penelope Douglas Devil's Night Romance
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