With This Ring (To Have And To Hold Duet 1)

He looks at me for a long, long time. I think about the ten years comment. Has he really not had a woman in that long? Is that normal for men?

“I smell you.”

I swallow. I’m wet. I feel it trickling down the inside of my thigh.

“I smell your want.”

When he closes his mouth over my clit, I lose the thread of my thoughts, only feeling his warm, wet mouth on me, his tongue licking me. My hands move, one into his hair the other onto his shoulder. He pushes my legs wider and licks and sucks. I’m gasping for breath, moaning, my eyes cast down to watch him. When he takes my clit into his mouth, I’m undone. I come. I come so fucking hard my knees give out and he has to hold me upright as he sucks harder.

I bite down on my own lip, cutting it. I taste that copper of blood and I realize that moaning, growing louder, is mine. Me. Blubbering words, calling for god. Calling him god. I don’t even know. I just…my god. I’ve never felt like this before. Never come like this before. I’m bucking with it and all I can feel is him. On me. His hands. His mouth. His tongue. Him.

I’m limp when it’s over, a whimper all I have left to give.

He meets my eyes, holding onto me as I slide down to my knees. I stare up at him as he sets his other knee on the floor. His eyes, my god. His eyes. They’re so beautiful even for the sadness ever present in that brilliant blue.

I think about what he said. How none of it will matter after he does what he has set out to do.

And I understand what it means and something inside my chest twists at the thought.

I touch his face. When he kisses me, I kiss him back and let him have my tongue.

He wraps a hand in my hair again and draws my head back, kisses my throat, bites the curve of my neck before facing me again.

“Take me out, Scarlett.” His voice is a growl.

I lick my lips, looking down at the crotch of his jeans, at the erection pushing against it. I fumble when I reach for him, undoing the button, the zipper, pushing his jeans and briefs down far enough to see him.

He’s big. Thick and throbbing, a vein pulsing.

I look up at him and he guides my hand. I close my fist and he squeezes his hand over mine so hard I’m sure it must hurt him.

“Fuck,” he starts, and I watch in awe as he pumps his cock once, twice, then stops to pull me close, to kiss me again, his cock at my belly, the tip wet on my skin. He kisses me as he guides himself between my legs and I draw in a breath when he rubs himself over my still-sensitive clit, between my wet folds.

“Oh, god.”

He looks at me then. We’re so close. All it would take would be the slightest shifting of position and we’d be even closer. He’d be inside me.

I swallow hard, wanting it. Wanting him to do it. Greedy in my desire to be closer. To feel him fill me. Greedy to come again. It’s the first time I’ve wanted a man like this. I never thought I’d want to be touched by a man again.

But then he makes a sound, a low groan followed by a curse. He draws back so abruptly, I startle, and the moment is gone. Poof. Just like that. Like it never even was.

He stands, turning to tuck himself away.

I remain on my knees staring up at him and his look is pained when he looks down at me.

“You need to go upstairs,” he says, his tone on edge. Tight.

“Why?”

He looks me over again, shakes his head, walks back to his desk where his shirt carelessly hangs over the back of his chair. He takes it, tosses it to me.

“Get dressed. Go upstairs. Get out of here. Now.”

I pull the shirt on, feeling embarrassed. Unwanted.

I stumble to my feet and watch him tilt the bottle back to swallow the rest of the whiskey.

When he turns to me, his eyes are shuttered.

“Noah’s already upstairs. You don’t go down to the cells again, understand?”

“He is?”

“Do you fucking understand?” he asks, stepping toward me almost aggressively and forcing me to take a step back.

I nod quickly. I’m still afraid of this man. It’s a mistake to be anything but afraid. He’s holding on to his sanity by a very worn thread.

“What happened just now? I don’t understand—”

“Go upstairs, Scarlett. Please,” he says through gritted teeth.

I want to. I want to run out of here but he’s too close. Beyond him I see the pot of ink on the desk, a towel, what looks to be a homemade tattoo machine. I look at his chest, at his arm where the bloody streak was, and see the dark lettering. I don’t know if it’s too dark or just badly done, but I can’t read it.