Stay by Rihanna plays on my phone where it sits on the plywood subfloor in my brand-spanking-new dance studio. The aroma of sawdust and sweat and excitement infuses the air as I rock my hips and study my reflection in the newly hung mirrors.
Cole kneels several feet behind me, installing the final ballet bar in the room he recently added on the rear of my house. Dust coats his Converse and faded jeans, his torso scrumptiously bare and rippling with overworked muscle.
I still can’t believe he built me a dance room. Who does that? When he showed me the designs and told me he was paying for everything, I sobbed hideous snot-laden tears of joy. Then I tried to talk him out of it, which I’ve learned is a wasted effort when his mind is made up.
It’s been nine months since we met in the street on that fateful morning. We fucked like animals that first night, and he moved in a month later. To say it’s been a whirlwind is an understatement. Every second of every day is a combustible haze of touching, kissing, intoxicating delirium that obscures our awareness of the world around us.
Inseparable to the point of infatuation, we’re sickeningly, obsessively, can’t-get-enough-of-each-other in love. I can’t imagine this fever ever fading. It’s too strong, too real, too deeply and intricately woven into the fiber of my being.
His dense lashes lift, and his brown eyes connect with mine. The need to kiss him hits me directly in the chest, and my pulse kicks into a wild crescendo. Is it possible for two people to kiss too much?
When our mouths aren’t locked together in aggressive passion, we’re grinning stupidly at each other. Like now.
That smile of his puts me in my feelings, and his dimples dare me to come closer, for a taste, a touch, for a full-body saturation in all things Cole.
“You’re distracting me, baby.” His gaze darkens, drifting lazily over my body.
“And?” I lift the hair off my damp nape and hold it on top of my head.
Now that I have his attention, I work my stomach muscles, contract my spine, and let my hips flow sensually to the provocative vocals.
I feel silly dancing around in his heavy work boots, but he demanded I wear them to protect my feet. Always so demanding and protective, but he does it in a manner that makes me feel cared for and loved. A girl could get use to this. She could become attached.
What am I thinking? I’m way past attached.
Sitting back on his heels, he swipes the back of a hand over his glistening brow. “If you’re going to tease me with that sexy ass, do it on the pole.”
He surprised me with the stripper pole a couple of hours ago, having installed it while I was running errands. I haven’t danced on it yet, deciding to save that erotic show until after we’ve both showered.
“What do you have left to do tonight?” I sashay toward him, singing along with Rihanna, twisting my hips, and sensually moving my arms above my head.
“Danni, you’re killing me here.” He groans, and his fingers clench around the drill in his hand. “I was going to start on the wood floors tonight.”
I’m tempted to pout, but I won’t. He’s doing this for me, and I’m so damn grateful. I’ll be thanking him with my body all night long, because holy hell, he wears dirt and sweat like a sexy tatted-up rock star.
“Stop looking at me like that.” His jaw flexes, his expression a storm of unrestrained desire. “Christ, you’re making me hard.”
“I wish I could stop, but when I see you, all I want to do is rip your clothes off and wrap my pussy around your cock.”
He curls his fingers against his thigh and looks around the unfinished room, an internal battle straining his gorgeous face. Oh, he wants to fuck me, but he knows as well as I do that anticipation makes it so much hotter.
“If you behave,” he says, his tone hard and uncompromising, “I’ll give you my cock. When I am ready.”
A shiver pulses through me. One thing’s for certain. He’ll fuck me rough and dirty, overpowering me in a way I never imagined wanting or enjoying. Now that I’ve experienced Cole’s brand of sex, I won’t ever go back to grunting and groping in the dark with a passive man. I hope to never touch another man again.
He returns his attention to the ballet bar, but I know he’s aware of my every move. Each time I shake my hips, flick my wrists, or swipe my tongue along my lips, a smile takes hold of his mouth.
His jeans sit so low on his hips the V-shaped cut of his torso stands out in stark relief. I want to trace the sculpted ridges with my lips and lick that thin trail of hair into the shadowed dip behind his fly.
Now my heart is fluttering. My mouth dries, and my nipples tighten against the itchy lace of my bra.
I continue to dance around the room, and his breathing speeds up. The muscles in his shoulders go taut, drawing my gaze to the black serpent tattooed around his bicep and along the side of his neck. He’s covered in ink—both arms, pecs, back, and a full wrap around one thigh. All black snakes. He had a pet snake in high school, which he claims gave him a dangerous reputation. A reputation that got him laid. A lot. I think he’s full of shit. His sex appeal alone drops panties everywhere he goes.
My playlist switches to the next Rihanna song, We Found Love. The quicker tempo lifts my cheeks and revs my body into a faster pace. I twirl through the room, bagging construction scraps and storing unused tools. I’m so lost in the music I barely feel the summer heat.
The A/C ventilation isn’t finished in the new room—a task in an endless list of tasks to complete before I can start teaching in my very own studio. Just thinking about that opportunity fills me with so much love for the man who gifted it to me.
I spin and bounce to the music, dripping with perspiration. I’ve been vigorously shaking my ass through the last five songs. So I pull off my shirt and fling it like I’m doing a striptease.
The sound of the drill screeches to a dying halt.
“Shit.” Cole rubs a finger over the errant hole he stabbed in the wall and narrows his eyes at me. “That was your fault.”
“Mine?” Standing before him in a white lace bra, ratty short-shorts, and oversized work boots, I give him an innocent look. “Why?”
“You know why.” His gaze drops to my chest, and he runs a hand over his face. A look of contemplation crosses his features, and he points at the far corner. “Bring me the tool box.”
I drag the heavy metal container to him and kneel beside it. “What do you need?”
“You.” His eyes flash.
“You have me. What else?”
“There’s a small box at the bottom.” He fiddles with the attachment on the drill.
A small box? I dig around, and my hand bumps something soft and square. Something out of place amid the metal edges of his tools. As I lift the tiny package, my heart catapults to my throat.
A black unmistakable box that can only contain one thing.
“Cole?” My voice croaks.
“Open it.” He inches toward me on his knees, and as his shadow falls across my face, I feel washed in blinding light. It’s his smile. My very own ray of happiness. The first and last thing I ever want to remember.
My fingers tremble as I open the lid, and a ring glimmers beneath the overhead lights. A plain silver band without diamonds or stones. My chest constricts, and my throat catches fire, burning with unshed emotion.
“I didn’t get a diamond because of something you said once. For every finger to receive a ring, another finger must pull a trigger.” He cups my face, his eyes searching mine with unnecessary worry. “You said you abhorred the human price of precious gems.”
“I did,” I whisper. “I do.”
“I researched and found that even non-conflict diamonds come from corrupt industries that do horrible crimes against humanity.”
I nod, hands shaking, eyes welling with grateful tears. “You’re right, Cole. Thank you.” I reach for his hand. “Thank you so much for taking the time to understand that. This ring is… It’s perfect.”
He releases a held breath a
nd rises on his knees, pulling me against him, chest to chest, heart meeting heart. His hands slide around me and splay over my backside. Then he lowers his forehead to mine and issues the command I yearn to hear. “Marry me, Danni.”
Tearful laughter bubbles up as I repeat his words from the day we met. “It’s a foregone conclusion.”
“It is.” He grins wickedly. “But I need you to say the appropriate response.”
“Yes.” I smile with tears in my eyes. “I’ll be your Mrs. Hartman.”
He snatches the box from my hands, grips the back of my neck, and pulls my mouth to his.
“I fucking love you,” he breaths into the kiss with so much adoration it makes my heart hurt.
I say it back, but the plunder of his tongue garbles my voice, steals my air, and scrambles my brain.
I’ve kissed a lot men in my twenty-four years, and every kiss applied the same mechanics. Parting lips, swiping tongues, and the dreaded sharing of spit. Since meeting Cole, I realize a real kiss is more than the motion of mouths. It’s an inspiration. A creation of something unfathomable and timeless. And the art of kissing begins and ends with Cole Hartman.
He kisses like his mission in life is to devour every breath I take and give it back with an infusion of love. His lips are firm, his hands active, his entire body bunching and rocking against me. Intensity lives in his blood, dominating his emotions and attitude. He doesn’t do anything half-ass, especially when it comes to me.
“I need you,” he says gruffly as his mouth veers along my jaw to latch onto my neck.
“I’m filthy.”
“No question about that. You’re my dirty little fuck doll.” He grips the backs of my knees and flips me onto my back.
I don’t slam against the floor, because his arm is there, catching my fall. I don’t know when he removed the ring from the box, but it’s in his hand as he crawls over me and slides it onto my finger.
“Perfect fit,” we say together.
His possessive smile is worth more than a mine filled with precious stones. My chest overflows with more love than it can hold.
“I’m going to break you tonight.” He bites my nipple through the bra.
“Is that before or after I drain your balls?”
“Yes.” He moves to my other breast, sliding down the cup to lave at my taut bud.
“Good.” I moan, arching against the wicked sensation of his talented mouth. “I don’t want to feel my face or hands after you’re finished with me.”
“I’m going to use you.” He unbuttons my shorts and pulls them off, taking my panties with them. “And abuse you.”
“Do it.”
“I’m going to split you in half.” He kneels between my legs and spreads my thighs wide, taking full advantage of my flexibility.
“Any time now would be great.” I writhe beneath him, wanting, aching, throbbing with wet arousal.
“When I pull your hair, you’ll scream for it, begging me to fuck you harder, deeper.”
“Because I love your dick. Now stop teasing me and serve it up, you dirty bastard.”
He laughs thickly, hungrily, and falls on top of me, attacking my mouth with breathless urgency. Whatever restraint he was holding onto snaps. The arm at my back keeps my bare skin from sliding against the splintery subfloor, but he’s shaking now, struggling to suspend me as he grinds the fly of his jeans against my pussy.
“Just put me down.” I reach between us and try to open his jeans.
With a deep growl, he surges to his feet, hauling me with him. The room spins, and my back crashes against a mirrored wall. He lifts me, wraps my legs around his waist, and shoves a hand between us, fumbling with his zipper.
The ragged sound of his breaths permeates the air, and the balm of hard labor and masculine musk fills my lungs. All of it makes me crazy with need. I palm his hard buttocks through the jeans and grind against his hand, rubbing my wetness all over him.
“Goddamn, you’re soaked.” His muscular backside flexes in my grip, and he abandons his fly to shove his fingers inside me.
Holy fuck, I feel him everywhere, stroking inside me, his tongue in my mouth, his skin slick and hot slipping against mine. I want to kiss and lick every inch of him, but he’s covered in a golden layer of sawdust.
“Shower,” I breathe against his lips.
He grunts in agreement and works off his shoes and jeans. Commando, of course. My sexy rebel doesn’t own a single pair of underwear.
Naked, he holds me against the swollen length of his cock and exits the dance studio through the kitchen, heading toward the bathroom. I cling to his shoulders, sucking on his full lips and clenching my thighs around his waist.
We don’t make it far before he finds a sturdy surface—the front of the refrigerator—and slams his cock into me. The vicious thrust rips a hoarse groan from his throat, and his hands shake and flex on my thighs.
“Fuck! Ohfuckohfuck!” I spasm around the thick invasion and stab my fingers in his hair, holding on. “Fuck me like you own me.”
“I do own you.” He kicks his hips, driving into me ruthlessly, while wrenching my head back and forcing my eyes to meet the feral gleam in his. “I want your come. Your screams. Your pleasure. Give it to me.”
I do. I scream his name as a swell of lust rises and builds into an unbearable pressure that detonates in rippling sparks of sensation. The hammer of his hips propels me through the toe-curling orgasm, pounding me against the fridge and sending beer bottles tumbling and clanking inside.
His chest heaves, and his pupils dilate as he holds me in unwavering eye contact.
“You look so fucking hot coming on my cock.” He smiles savagely and continues to thrust while aftershocks of pleasure twitch and jerk through my limbs. “God, I love your cunt.”
“My cunt loves you,” I say through labored breaths. “You should put a ring on it.”
He tenses, and his response rolls out like a growl. “A piercing?”
“Sure.”
His dick gives a hard jerk inside me. “Tomorrow. We’re busy tonight.”
He peels my sticky body off the fridge and carries me through the hall and into the bathroom. It’s a tiny space, and it seems even smaller since he moved in. With his broad bulky frame, he’s like a bear bumping into the walls and stumbling against the tub and toilet.
As I stretch out an arm to dial in the water temperature in the shower, he holds me on his cock, thrusting me up and down and sucking on my neck.
“I want to fall asleep inside you tonight.” He draws my earlobe into his mouth and circles a finger around my clit, working me into Cole-induced orgasm addiction.
Any woman who claims she doesn’t like sex hasn’t been on the receiving end of Cole’s cock. Unfortunately, I’d be hard-pressed to find many of those women, because he’s plowed his way through the greater St. Louis area.
My molars slam together, and I inwardly curse my ill-timed thoughts.
His fingers pause on my clit, and he leans back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I kiss his parted lips.
“Bullshit.” He steps into the tub and positions my back beneath the warm spray.
I sigh and relax against his chest, sliding my cheek against his scruffy jaw. “I was thinking about your slutty days.”
“I don’t think about that. Ever.” He shifts, pressing me against the tiles so he can cradle my face in his hands. “My life began the day we met. There is no before. Only you.”
I trace a finger along his dark brow, around the outer corner of one deep brown eye, and follow the chiseled angle of his face. “You’re beautiful.”
He squints. “I’m not a fan of—”
“Handsome.”
“Better.” He crooks a sexy grin and drags his nose alongside mine.
“And manly.” I grip his rock-solid ass, delighting in the feel of soft skin over steel.
“Now you’re talking.”
I love the way he tilts his head to follow me with his e
yes. Whenever I’m in his arms, he keeps his face close to mine, always watching, studying, touching his brow, lips, nose, or cheek to mine, as if he can’t get close enough, breathing me in, smelling me, and tasting my skin. His attentiveness is unparalleled. I’ve never met anyone like him.
“Fuck me, Cole.” I suckle on his mouth and rub my tongue against his. “Fill me up.”
He pulls out of me and spins me around to face the wall. His arm swings toward the built-in ledge beside us, sending shampoo and soap to the floor as he grabs what he’s looking for. Lube.
My stomach flip-flops, and I push my ass out like a wanton thing. He oils up his cock and drops the bottle. Then his hand slides over my abs, between my legs, and three fingers sink inside. I rise on tiptoes and flatten my palms against the tiles, my legs trembling against the pleasure sweeping through my body.
His other hand presses against my ribs, just beneath my breast, holding me tight to him. I clutch that hand, lacing our fingers together and squeezing hard.
“I’m ready, Cole.”
He took my anal virginity two weeks after we met and fucks my ass every chance he gets. It’s his weakness. One glimpse of that puckered hole and he can’t control himself. He’s already panting at my ear, grinding and rubbing himself against me while his fingers plunge in and out of my pussy. He’s a goner.
“I won’t be able to hold back,” he growls.
As if he knows another way. Not only is he hard as a rock, he’s well-endowed. Long and wide with a big fat head. I’m going to feel every inch of that gorgeous cock.
He seats the broad tip against my tight ring of muscle and bites the sensitive skin beneath my ear. “Push back, baby.”
I edge back, relaxing into it. His fingers curl inside me, gripping my pussy and maneuvering me where he wants me as he sinks into my ass.
“Jesus, fuck.” It’s a tight fit. I’m not going to last. My body’s already primed, inching toward to the fall into bliss.
By the heaving, groaning noises at my ear, he’s right there with me. He loves anal, but he never lasts long when he takes me this way. It feels too good, so fucking tight and erotic he always finishes within minutes.
“Danni.” He pumps into me frantically, erratically, his entire body shaking with the need to release. “I’m going to…”
Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire Page 8