Not for Sale

by Eden Rayna

  I stroke him several times before he stills my hand to remove his clothes. Naked and out of arm's reach, he watches me. Eyes caress each inch of my body from my toes to my forehead. He doesn’t tell me I’m beautiful. He doesn’t say how happy he is. He doesn’t need to. I see it in him, and I feel the same way.

  Owen pulls me off the ground with a swift hoist, hinting at what’s next. I spread my legs wide to reach around him and guide his rigid shaft towards my entrance. He slides in slowly, stretching me out, filling me up. My eyes are closed, but I sense him watching me. The intensity of his attentive eyes cannot be ignored. His heated gaze strokes my face, focussed to maintain control. He grunts as he bottoms out inside me, showing the same fight as me to not go limp in his arms. I squeeze harder around his back and neck, doing my part to stay up and he presses his lips to mine, helping me stay secured by offering one more piece of himself to grab on to.

  “God, Iz. It’s going to be a challenge to take it slow.”

  “I don’t want slow.”

  Still, his movements are measured and deliberate, and I don’t hate it. He draws out of me gradually, then glides in, finishing with a dizzying thrust of his pelvic bone against my clit. Each unhurried plunge radiates throughout my body. He’s trying to hold off for me because he wants this to be perfect. I don’t want perfection. I want fervour and emotion and excitement. I want the new Owen. The real Owen who’s unafraid of giving himself away.

  “Owen.” I place one hand on his cheek. “Don’t hold back.” I want him to throw all the passion he put into this house, into my body.

  I rock into him, pushing off his shoulders and into the wall to urge him on.

  “If you keep that up, I’m going to explode.” His nostrils flare, and his jaw tightens.

  “That’s kind of the point.” I grin.

  “You’re going to kill me, Princess.”

  “I will, if you call me that again.”

  He laughs low and raw, ignoring my warning as a real threat. But he does ride me harder. He snakes his hand between us and circles my clit, causing mini eruptions in my core with every swirl.

  The friction from his fingers increases, as does the fury behind his thrusts. My spine is going to be bruised from being drilled into the wall, so will my hips from his fingers digging into my flesh. And I love it. I love that every muscle in my body will ache tomorrow, even the muscles I didn’t know existed.

  “Come on, Izzy. You want to.” I want to, but more than wanting my own release, is wanting his. “Give it to me.” He grows thicker inside me and my breathing falters. “That’s it.” He gently pinches my hypersensitive nub and that is it.

  My vision blurs and I fall apart all around him, hissing out a final, ragged breath. His last thrust drills me so hard, I’m sure I hear the drywall crack underneath the howl Owen releases as he spills his seed inside me.

  We stay joined like that for another minute until we’ve both stopped quivering and our breathing isn’t quite so ragged. Owen lowers my feet to stand on his shirt, then he drops his forehead to mine and cradles my face, saying everything he’s always wanted to say without using any of the words that never come easily.

  Epilogue

  Izzy

  Six months later.

  “Happy housewarming!” Kelsey hollers, letting herself in the front door.

  As though the lockbox was never removed, we have an open-door policy. If someone shows up to a locked door, they know to leave. Owen and I moved in a few weeks ago and we still have a few pieces of furniture that need to go through our highly rigorous quality control inspection.

  Finishing our home has been an interesting test for our relationship. Officially, I kept residence at Kelsey’s while Owen stayed at another development property close to here, but we spent so many hours under this roof that we might as well have been living together.

  We concluded that any couple who can make it through house renovations will stand the test of time. Having lived it, I can’t imagine another scenario to be more taxing. Maybe having kids. But we won’t go there yet.

  Kelsey, Scott, Brett, and Greg meet us by the giant sliding doors to the backyard. It’s late fall and already snowing, so we won’t gather outside, but we’re eager to explain the spring landscaping project to everyone. Most of the old trees were nearing the end of their lives, so they had to come down. New trees will replace them, and in a few years, we’ll be raking glorious piles to my heart’s content.

  Tommy is here with his parents, pointing out all the parts of the house that he had a hand in. And Asher is here with his girlfriend. It took some time to make things normal between us, but we’re as good as we ever were.

  Kelsey’s carrying a giant gift under her arm that she thrusts at me while sporting a shit-eating grin.

  “What is it?” I ask cautiously.

  “Your housewarming gift.” Duh.

  “Why do I feel like you’re spoofing me?” She shrugs my comment off and urges me to open it.

  “It’s from all of us.” The guys gather around.

  I lay it across the dining room table and call Owen to see what they got up to. The way Owen eyes each of his friends mirrors my scepticism.

  “Go ahead,” I tell him.

  He wastes no time ripping into the paper like he’s never had the opportunity to open a gift in his life. By the time he’s done, the wrapping looks like Cookie Monster attacked the baked goods aisle of the grocery store.

  Owen’s efforts reveal a large, stained plank of wood. He flips it over and cracks up. It’s a giant lacquered tree trunk sign that reads The Princess Project. Owen busts a gut laughing and spins around to high five his entourage.

  At first, I was angry about the name Owen gave this project, and I covered the words with colourful stickies everywhere I saw it, but I eventually got over it. That nickname is where it all began for us.

  When everyone finally goes home at the end of the night and Owen offers to wash the dishes, I tell him I’ll be back in a few minutes to help. I slide the sign off the table and quietly carry it outside. Ensuring my movements are as stealth as possible, I steal into the garage to grab a stepladder, then reach into the toolbox for a measuring tape, hammer, and nails. I set the short ladder under the snow-free portico.

  Measuring is the straightforward part, hammering without being found out will be trickier. Sure enough, as soon as the hammer makes the first strike, the front door flies open.

  “What the hell!” he shouts, grabbing my hips like I’m suddenly unable to stand on my own. “Isabella Holt!”

  “Yes, dear.” My words are slow and mocking. After months of being called by my full name, I have mastered the perfect response.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m hanging the plaque you thought was so hilarious earlier today.”

  “With no one to spot you? Get down.”

  I wave him off. It’s a stepladder. I only climb real ladders when he’s there to secure it, having a full understanding of where his worries come from. I’m stubborn, but not cold-hearted.

  “I’m almost done.” I pull the final nail out of my pocket and hammer it in. “Be a doll and hand me the sign,” I say, passing him the hammer. I love riling him up.

  “How about you climb down and I’ll hang it?”

  “No, thanks.” I flap my hand impatiently, signalling to give me the damn piece of wood already. My fingers are getting cold.

  He bends, showing off his beautiful assets in the blue jeans he’s wearing. Although everyone knows how much I love the Carhartts and the all-black outfits he’s so keen on wearing, I convinced him that with a walk-in closet as stunning as the one he built, he needs to fill the shelves with something more colourful and varied.

  It’s taken a while for him to settle into the idea of never having to move again, but he’s getting there. Every day he relaxes a little more. Every day his sentences become longer, more descriptive, less bossy. Unless we’re getting feisty. I l
ike it when he bosses me around then. If he keeps up the put-the-girl-on-a-pedestal vibe he’s got going on right now, we’re in for a late night.

  Owen hands me the sign and returns his hands to brace my hips. I slide the heads of the nails into the grooves and wave my hand around—my signal to hand me the level.

  “Stand back and tell me what you think.”

  “Come down first.” I roll my eyes, and while my attention is diverted, he hooks me around the waist and flings me over his shoulder. I scream as my world suddenly flips upside down.

  “Owen! Put me down!”

  “Gladly.” He drops me on the grass in ankle deep snow.

  I slap his ass. He is impossible. I swear, the house could have been finished a month earlier if he would have worked instead of acting as my bodyguard.

  He catches my hand on his backside and sinks it into his rear pocket, then wraps his arm around my shoulder to provide some warmth. The scrappy energy from the past five minutes falls away while we look at our front door. An afternoon of having friends and family here makes it feel like home.

  “Gran would be proud,” I say.

  Owen kisses the top of my head, letting his lips linger. I give him this moment because he’s his thoughts don’t end with Gran. We buried Pops a couple months ago. It was bittersweet, but Owen told us Pops is exactly where he should be—with his Livy.

  A while ago, I learned what Pops’ role was in the events that led us to where we are today. It was more than how he raised Owen to be the incredible man he is—strong, determined, and honest—but where we are. I wouldn’t be standing on Gran’s lawn staring at our dream home if not for Pops.

  “I have a housewarming gift for you too, Iz.”

  “So do I.” I grin. “But I need to get naked to show you,” I whisper.

  Owen smiles at me with interest and in a flash, I’m over his shoulder once more, being hauled into the house. When he gets like this, he normally drops me on the couch, fucks me against a wall, or the closest table. Not today. Today, he carries me up the stairs, laughing and squealing the whole way.

  “Alright, woman!” he bellows. “Take it all off!” Owen stands beside the bed with his hands on his hips.

  “What ever happened to romance and savouring moments like these?”

  He barks out a laugh. “You don’t like it like that.”

  “Oh, no?”

  He bends, resting his arms on either side of me, dropping the softest, most luxurious kiss on my lips. “Like that?”

  My heart is pounding too fast to answer.

  Owen laughs at me and shakes his head. “Naw, not like that. You like it fast and rough and hard.” He palms himself through his jeans, pointing out that’s exactly what he is now.

  When we’re naked, he forgets his sworn vow to protect me from all things dangerous. Afterwards, though, in the hushed glow of bliss, he shows me his romantic side, tracing gentle fingers along my sides, wrapping himself around me in a bear hug or drawing us a bubble bath in our giant tub.

  I reach for his belt to help him out of his pants, but he slides out of reach.

  “Show me my present first.”

  A rush of nervous energy slides beneath my skin. This gift doesn’t come with a return policy.

  I cross my arms and reach for the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head to slowly to reveal a thin strip of white gauze around the ribs on my right side. Owen recognises what it covers right away, saving me from a lecture on safety and how I was bound to hurt myself at some point. His mouth stretches out into a wide grin as I pull at the tape securing the bandage.

  “Let me,” he says, and gently strips away the protective cover hiding my very first tattoo.

  The love you give me is what eternity tastes like.

  Owen has been using his body for years to immortalise his mom, and now his dad. I’m that someone for Owen, and his memory will forever be preserved on my body. Although he’ll never admit it, he’s always so busy looking out for everyone else—me, his buddies, his crew, his clients—that sometimes he forgets that there are people who are looking out for him.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  He wants to reach out and touch it but it’s still raw and sensitive and he knows to leave it alone. Instead, he softly reapplies the bandage, then covers my mouth with his. He’s always been better at demonstrating his feelings than talking about them.

  “I love it, but I thought you said my gift required you to get naked.”

  “I wasn’t going to take my shirt off on the front lawn.” It was bad enough the neighbours had to listen to us squabbling about my abilities to decorate our home for the past six months; they don’t need to see me stripping too.

  “Okay, how about you make it up to me and get naked now?”

  “Sure, as soon as I get my gift.” I put my palms out, waiting for him to drop something into my hands. Instead, with a wide grin, Owen pulls his shirt over his head and shows off a similar bandage to the one I removed. I have to laugh.

  He lifts my hand and settles it on the corner of the bandage, allowing me to do the honours of revealing this latest piece of himself. I peel off the gauze slowly, like he did for me. Underneath is a small-scale rendering of our home written in script is: The lassie comes with the house.

  I tear up, because that’s what I do. Memories of Pops, although I didn’t know him well or for long, always make me cry. Especially since it was him who read Owen’s future, and ultimately mine, the day he said those words in his nursing home. I kiss a spot on Owen’s chest right above the tattoo, then wrap my arms around his neck.

  “For two people who couldn’t be more opposite, we seem to think along the same lines.”

  “I must be rubbing off on you,” he says with a smirk.

  “I know what you can rub on me.” I crack and reach out.

  We fall on to the bed, groping for the other’s pants and getting our hands tangled in the frantic process. He loses patience and grabs me by the wrists, locking my hands above my head. Under a watchful look, telling me to leave my arms where they are, Owen lets me go. His hands travel the curves of my body to my waistband and pop the button and zipper with no further hindrance. I raise my hips before being asked, or better yet, being told, as Owen is prone to doing. My jeans invert as they are pulled from my legs and dropped to the floor.

  His deep inhale acts as a force to pull his face to settle between my legs. I spread for him, already buzzing with anticipation, already wet with desire. Owen’s finger dips inside and pulls some essence out. He sucks it off, licking every drop I’ve given him before sliding back inside me.

  “I love that first taste of you. Sweet and inviting.” He talks to me in a voice that’s neither sweet nor inviting, and I cherish it.

  I love how raw he is when it’s just us and our lust. How he talks to me but keeps his focus on the finger that’s penetrating my core, reaching for more. “I also like the taste of you after you come.” He swipes his tongue across my clit, encouraging his words to come true. “Musky and intoxicating, like I need to gather every drop and not waste any of it.”

  Owen’s fingers slide and his tongue strokes, not lingering in any one spot long enough for the nerves to stop firing, setting off a fireworks show below my waist.

  He hums into me and my hips come off the bed, yearning for him. He forces me down with his free hand to keep his lips attached to my body. Being ravaged by Owen is always a sensational experience. His tongue on and in me, his lips sucking, his fingers reaching for that deep spot inside me that only he can find.

  My legs begin shaking and my stomach rolls with the nearing orgasm.

  “Yes, Iz,” he says with faster, deeper strokes and harder brushes against my nub.

  My hips want to buck, but I’m being held in place. I pull on his hair, securing myself to the one stable thing within reach because I’m about to fly off the bed. I’m about to soar on the orgasm that is one tongue flick away.

  Owen reads my body and he doesn’t
stop to cheer me on again. Instead, he pulls my clit between his lips and gives a gentle tug. That’s all it takes to loosen the knots in my core, to unravel my insides and set me free. He removes his hand from my belly, letting my back arch into the spasms and ride the waves that keep coming while he continues to drag his tongue lazily across my folds.

  Our bodies merge as he slides over me and nuzzles his chest against mine. “That was perfection,” he mumbles into my neck.

  I shake my head.

  “No?” he asks with a squeak to his voice, his pride taking a hit.

  Wordlessly, I reach between the two of us and work his pants off to free his shaft. It’s hard and heavy and the feel of it in my hands makes me wetter. We lay on our sides and I lift my leg over his, spreading myself open for him. I slide his bulging head around in my arousal before aligning it with my slick entrance and slipping the tip inside.

  Owen grunts, then lets out a slow, measured breath while I hold mine in, matching his effort to maintain control. I shift my hips, allowing him to sink deeper inside, then hook my foot around his ass to push him the rest of the way and keep him locked there. He plays along, reaching for my leg and hitching it higher up his torso to stretch me further, to open me more, then to hold me in place.

  “This,” I kneed his ass with my fingers and he pushes in a little further, “is perfection.”

  My life is perfect because all the puzzle pieces finally fit together.

  His eyes are swirling pools of passion and greed, conflicted between wanting to fuck me and make love to me. It always begins this way, and it always ends with us drenched in sweat and the sheets ripped from the corners of the bed.

  I used to fight the slow start, prod him along to the feverish pace that will have us both coming in minutes, but I’ve learned to love the dizzying control needed to prolong the pleasure. So, I let him ease in and out over and over again while we kiss and stroke and bite whatever body part is accessible. Eventually, he thrusts harder. His hips pump and swirl, and mine match the movements. Owen’s hand drops to my breast and he sucks my nipple between his lips, rolling it around like he did to my clit. It has a similar effect, which hits me low in my core.