Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

She made a soft sighing sound and hooked her arm around his neck while her mouth blossomed beneath his, opening up to his gently questing tongue. His other arm curved around her waist, and his fist clenched in the fabric of her dress, just above the swell of her behind. He dragged her close, until he could feel her every curve outlined against him.

His beautiful wife; he had missed her so much. Missed holding her, kissing her . . . loving her. He couldn’t seem to get her close enough, and she appeared to feel the same way. As the kiss intensified, she undulated against him, her pelvis grinding against his hardness.

He was suddenly grateful for his lack of underwear: it gave him room to grow, so to speak. His erection lengthened and thickened. With her thrusting against him and the rough denim rubbing his sensitive length, he already felt close to bursting. From just this kiss.

It was a sublime kiss, but he hadn’t ever come so close to losing control over his libido before, and certainly never over a kiss. But this was Olivia. His Olivia. His wife, the mother of his child, and he . . .

She planted her hands on his chest and forcefully shoved him away. His head jerked up, and he stared down at her in bewilderment. Her cheeks were flushed with pink, and she had her hands clamped over her breasts.

“I—” he began, wanting to apologize. Needing to apologize. That had been so way out of line. But she beat him to it.

“Oh God, I’m sorry,” she said, and he frowned in confusion. What did she need to apologize for? This was all on Greyson.

“It just happened.” She was still talking, and she shook her head before uttering a miserable, “God.”

Greyson glanced down to where her hands were still covering her breasts, and he felt his own cheeks go red.

Shit.

“No. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have . . . uh . . .” He wasn’t sure what exactly could have caused the spreading damp patches beneath her hands. Possibly arousal. But he couldn’t apologize for turning her on. Not when he felt as horny as a fucking teenager himself. He didn’t even care. He wanted to kiss her again, touch her, do so much more. And if that was evidence of her arousal, then fucking bring it on.

He was ready to reach for her again when his eyes fell to her dress, and he froze. Her beautiful, unspoiled lacy white dress. All that innocent perfection . . . covered in blood. His blood.

Just another example of Greyson destroying every perfect thing that he touched.

“Your dress,” he said, his voice weighted with misery, and she looked down. Her eyes widened in horror at the sight of all that red on the previously perfect white of her dress.

“Greyson, that cut is really bad,” she said, her voice urgent and seemingly unconcerned with the state of her pretty dress. “Give me a minute to change, but rewrap your hand. I’ll be right back.”

She turned and exited the room, leaving him feeling a little forlorn and a lot lost. He wanted her back—having her close made him feel anchored. Without her, everything was a confusing mess, and all he could see was the bright red on that pristine white. He felt sick to his stomach and fought the urge to retch.

He had ruined it. He had ruined her. His perfect, beautiful Olivia.

Fifteen months ago

Blood.

Why was there blood? Greyson stared down at the patch of blood on the snow-white sheets in complete confusion. Olivia had just gone to the bathroom, and he had sat up to watch her leave. His eyes had remained glued to the perfection of her naked ass until she had shut the door between them. That was when his gaze had dropped and he had seen the blood on the sheets of his king-size penthouse-suite bed.

They had just slept together. Her body had responded to his every practiced move with predictable ardor, and Greyson had . . . well, he had loved it. She had made him feel more, experience more, than any other woman before her, and he had reveled in it. There was something powerful, so damned powerful, about finally bedding a woman he knew had wanted him for years. A woman he had wanted for almost the same amount of time. A woman whom he had considered off limits for way too damned long. It had really gotten his rocks off, and he couldn’t wait to have more of her. To try more with her.

She had been so damned receptive to his every touch—Greyson was already borderline addicted to her. The smell of her. Taste of her. Touch of her. Her softness, her heat, her tightness. God, her tightness.

His gaze remained fixated on the red splotch. Trying to make sense of it. It didn’t belong there . . . he couldn’t figure it out.