by Alam, Donna
‘I’m a jerk who owns up to his mistakes.’ Bending, I brace myself over her body, one hand pressed into the mattress by her head. Somehow, my other hand seems to have a mind of its own, running through those dark, silky strands. ‘You might have secured a divorce without sullying yourself. But me, babe? I’m not so lucky. I’ve fucked anything with tits and an ass.’
‘What are you doing?’ she asks, even as I draw closer tilting my head, my intention clear.
‘Adding one more mistake to my tally,’ I reply, watching as the realisation dawns in her gaze. The lust and the relief. ‘Because I’m going to fuck my wife.’
I lower my head an inch farther until her hand and my chest connect.
‘Dylan, do you think this is a good idea?’
You were the love of my life, and you didn’t want to be. The words choke me. I can’t say them. Not without coming apart at the seams. And I’ll wear your name on my heart until the day I fucking die.
Instead, I answer simply, ‘It’s not up for discussion, babe.’
Chapter 16
Dylan
Our mouths meet, but this is no soft reunion. Despite the loss and regret, the confusion and pain, this is no tentative incident. My kiss is hard—punishing lips and grazing teeth. I fuck her mouth with my tongue, mean and possessive, while she takes it all. Participates. Moaning into my mouth, she threads her legs around my waist, hooking them over my back; her heels pull my hips into hers. Hands in my hair, she draws it into her fists, jerking me closer, as though she can’t get enough. As though she wants this to hurt.
If this kiss is our punishment, take a whip to us both. We’re free-falling now, and there is no reverse. I’m not braced on my arms; my body is flush against hers. I wonder if she can feel me shaking—shaking like it’s my first time. I wonder if she can feel my heart pounding—wonder if hers beats the same rapid tune. And all the while I’m barely processing, I’m trying to climb inside her skin. Scraping my teeth over her neck. Grinding against her. Getting her off yet barely touching her.
But I will. I have no intentions of going anywhere. Yet I wait. Vacillate. Not because I’m reluctant and nostalgia has no place here. Adrenaline floods my veins until I can feel my body almost vibrating, the anticipation like a high. I physically tremble. Maybe it’s need, or maybe it’s because I know it’s gonna hurt. Afterwards. This isn’t one of my finest moments, but it’s the only one I want. I crave the high of this ride.
Rammed tight between her legs, I rest my weight on one elbow and slide my hand down her curves, ignoring the glint from the ring of gold she wears on a chain around her neck. Cheap piece of shit. I’d bought her a diamond band to replace it—ethically sourced diamonds, handmade artisan. The kind of ring that cost almost as much as my sister’s condo. At least, she was grateful. Ivy, on the other hand, rarely wore it and left it behind. Get in the game, Dylan. Get the fuck out of your head.
My fingers barely caress the side of her breast. God, I’ve missed this—missed the tiny intake of breath she’s not even aware of making. Missed the high colour in her cheeks and the mahogany of her hair. Her skin is so soft, her hair so dark and silky, and her pussy so . . . sublime.
And still mine.
Clenching my hand at her hip, I twist the pale string of her panties cruelly, aware that the string will be digging into her skin. Not that her face betrays any of this. She’s all languid eyes and soft and rapid breath. Her lips are cherry ripe, and all her dirty thoughts are written across her face.
‘New panties, Edera?’ My voice is soft, mocking, as I feel the fibres in my hand divide. ‘I hope you weren’t too attached to them.’
She moans aloud as the string snaps in my hand, but I leave them attached to her other hip. Lying the lace triangle against her thigh, I slip my hand between her legs and slide my fingers along her slit until her juices coat my fingertips. Slick. Hot. Heaven.
‘This for me or for him?’
I’m not watching her face; my gaze remains intent between her legs because she won’t answer. Not verbally, at least, as she widens her legs and tilts her hips as though the change in angle will give her relief. Something snags my focus—something not quite right. Her body’s giving the right signals, but she makes little noise. As I look up into her face, her eye contact is nil. Ivy’s all about the connection; at least, she was. Lustful glances and tender touches. Sighs offered like secrets told. And now, her eyes are closed. Disconnected. That’s not what I need.
‘Answer me.’ My voice is rough and gravelly, the grip on my temper fucking tenuous. Thin. ‘Me or him. It’s an easy question. Who made you wet—fucking dripping?’ She looks like she’s about to tell me to go get fucked when I slide two fingers down her slit then push them inside. ‘Just the tips, Edera, baby. Those are just the tips. Your pussy’s so wet and ready, but I need to know if it’s for me or for him.’
Her lush bottom lip is folded between her teeth as though she’s determined to keep the words in. So I push those fingers in—all the way in until her wetness coats my knuckles. My dick throbs when she rewards me with a sharp exhale like the sensation is brand new. Like we haven’t done this before a thousand times.
‘It’s you. It’s always been you, you . . . twat.’
I laugh unexpectedly. It’s such an Ivy choice of word. Not that she’d admit it to anyone else, but this girl can swear like a sailor’s whore. She swallows, watching my face—my laugh—in her own a moment of regret. One I don’t want to think about, so I kiss her. Pull my fingers out. Rotate. Push them back in.
‘Open those legs, baby.’ I whisper the words against her mouth. ‘Let me see that pussy.’
Like the good girl she likes to think she is, she does.
I nip at her neck. Use my teeth harder. Bite. Soothe with my tongue. Lave and lap. Grip her pulse so hard between my teeth that she gasps. And all the while, she yields, legs spread, pushing up into my hand when I cover her mound. Grinds her clit against my palm and, to my profound surprise and delight, she comes hard. Surprise because I’m not inside her. Don’t have my mouth on her or fingers inside her anymore, only my palm. And she’s groaning, blissing out, releasing tremulous breath after breath. And fuck me, if this isn’t the hottest thing I’ve been near to in months. Seen in months. My darling Ivy. A little thinner. A little harder. But maybe a little more than I deserve.
I slide my way down her body before she has time to catch her breath. I want to be inside her so badly but crave her taste. I flick my tongue on either side of her lips, and she moans. Slipping my tongue through her wetness, I feel her arch from the bed with a cry.
‘Hush.’ I place my palm low on her stomach and press down, taking her clit softly into my mouth.
‘Oh, fuck,’ she pants. I smile from nostalgia. From this girl’s sweet, filthy mouth.
‘What was that?’ I growl against her wetness, knowing how the vibration works for her.
‘Oh, fuck. Fuck me.’ She arches again.
‘You don’t need to ask twice, baby, but for now, I’ve gotta keep tasting.’
‘Yes!’ More hiss than word.
‘Yes, what?’ More taunt than response.
‘Yes, please,’ she cries, as I use the roughness of my stubble against where she’s most soft. ‘Please. Taste me. Fuck me with your mouth, Dylan. Make me come!’
So I do. I fuck her with my tongue using my fingers and an arsenal of stubble, lips, and teeth. I flick and suck, drawing every sensation from her body along with her cries. She tastes like . . . Ivy. Like I remember. Like the woman who was once my whole world.
Like my wife.
Her essence and cum coat my lips and chin as she crests again, riding my face. I suck her clit between my lips and lap with a flattened tongue—on and on until she begins to mewl, her hands in my hair like she’s not sure if she wants me to back off or push her further—harder. Devour her. Not that it matters; it isn’t her decision to make because I keep her there, balanced on that knife’s edge of too much yet not enough, on th
e dividing line between pleasure and pain. My arm across her stomach, I keep her weighted against the bed, eating her out until her mewls turn to curses.
‘Fuck. No. Fuck me.’ Her hands claw my shoulder and push at my head, her thighs twitching around my fucking face.
‘Not yet, baby. I’m not done eating this pussy.’
I grab her hands. Pulling them to her stomach, I pin them in one of mine. I bury myself between her thighs, my tongue working her clit and my fingers stroking deep inside.
‘Enough! Please, it’s too much. Please, no. Dylan, stop!’
But I won’t. Not until her legs shake like Jell-O—not until her stomach quivers under our joined hands.
‘Oh, God. Oh, God.’ She chants a litany as I push her over the edge, her body welcoming the inevitable and pushing up against me until she’s utterly spent. Her movements become more gentle without changing the tone, the gentle undulations of her body still riding my face and hand.
Her eyes are glazed; her body spent as I pull my fingers from between her legs. Pushing up onto my knees, I lick her taste from my lips and stare down at her, taking a snapshot of this moment for posterity. My dick might be rock hard, but my heart is also heavy. We’ll never have this again; I don’t deserve it, and she’s too strong to be suckered into a repeat.
Her body jolts as my hand drifts between her legs, my thumb caressing her sensitized flesh. Like a magnet, I bring my thumb to my mouth, watching as her eyes flare like it’s the most sexual thing she’s seen. Lips softly parted, she lets out a quiet moan; her gaze glued to mine and utterly unguarded. At this moment, I could convince myself she still loved me. Almost.
As though reading my mind, her lids shutter closed, and she sighs again. Only this time, it sounds more like heartbreak. A better man would get off the bed and leave before causing any more hurt. He wouldn’t lie down beside her and take her full, lush breast in his hand. I groan as my mouth engulfs one pink tip, her nipple stiffening to my tongue. I tell myself I can’t stop now—the point of no return has long since passed—especially as she whispers my name, her hand cupping my head.
It’s a tender moment.
Loving.
Hurtful.
Not enough.
Her fingers trail across my chest, branding my skin with the small points of contact. Because that’s how I feel—burned. I can’t take it, so I press her hand to the bed and work my way up her body, tasting her creamy flesh until we’re face to face. I’m angry again. With myself. With her. And as she tilts her head for a kiss, I pull back, suddenly hating her soft, full lips—the source of her lies—but mostly, I hate myself. I have her under me by misdeed. She left me for a reason I can’t fathom, beyond a lack of love. What kind of sick fuck am I to crave her attentions still? She might be back—she might be under me—but not because she wants to be. Sure, she’s turned on, but that’s animal. Visceral. Not what she wants or what she needs.
I’m a monster. A fucking troll. A better man would leave. Apologise. Instead, I evade her lips, grab her hip, and roll her unceremoniously across the bed.
‘Ivy, Ivy, Ivy.’ I can barely hear myself murmuring her name over and over again, words that are soft but not kind. She lands on her stomach, the mass of her hair obscuring her face. Not that I’m looking as I climb over her and rip the remains of her panties from her legs.
I kiss her shoulder. Bite it. Make her cry out. Rub the length of my dick against her ass cleft. Run the roughness of my chin down her spine.
‘Get up.’ My words are soft as I thread my arm beneath her waist. Soft but full of contempt. ‘Get on your knees like the good girl you pretend you are.’ Pulling her up from the bed, white-hot need burns under my skin, and it’s not all about sex. It’s about power and need; the manic desire to break her apart with my bare hands. To conquer. To possess.
‘That’s it; spread your fucking legs.’ Before she can, I spread her ass cheeks with hard fingers and press my face between her legs. I lick her from clit to asshole, drawing out her groan and making her almost collapse. Straightening, I push her thighs together and bracket them with my own.
‘Dylan, please,’ she pants, trying to turn her head over her shoulder, which is pretty hard to do as I wrap my hand around the back of her neck.
‘Hush.’ It’s just a sound expelled through gritted teeth as I push her head forward and down. ‘Let’s do what we do best.’ Swiping my dick through her wetness, I push inside.
My body jerks—shock, I think—before I pull back and slam into her again, this time with a grunt that counters her cry. I begin to move, all action and little thought for anything else but blinding myself. To every misdirection. Every hurt. Her hot walls clench around me with every hissed curse I throw at her. I want it to hurt so bad, but for which of us, I’m not sure. Maybe I want us both to end it right here—to leave us both bloodied and bruised.
A fitting ending.
Her hands twist in the pale bedding, and I suddenly need to own the rasp of her breath, but I can’t find the coordination to slow down or wrap my fingers around her fucking neck. She begins to slip or pull away—I’m not sure which—and I sure as shit don’t care which.
I slide my hand under her waist, pulling her back from her collapse as my other tangles in her mane of hair.
‘I’m not done yet,’ I growl, grasping her hips in both hands and pulling her hard against me. Rooted deep inside, I grind against her ass. ‘You want it hard or soft? Maybe you want to touch yourself while we fuck?’
‘Yes!’ Her answer is more hiss than actual word as I sense a shift in her breathing, and I unravel a little more at the hot grip of her walls around my dick.
‘You want me to go hard. You want this to hurt.’ I underline the last with a punch of my hips. Her fingers are as white as the bedding she grasps, her pussy pulsing greedily and drawing me down to my own collapse. Curled against her back, I resist the urge to twist her face to mine—to force her to surrender from her mouth. Instead, I groan into her neck low and harsh. ‘I fucking loved you. How’s that feel for you, Edera? That hurt enough?’
I swear the sob that rises from her chest makes the bed shake, the muscles of her tight pussy echoing her cry even as she pushes back, deepening my strokes.
My eyes fucking sting as I approach the point of no return, every square inch of my skin prickling. I suck in a deep breath because I’m coming, and coming hard, grasping her shoulders as I fuck the life out of us both.
Like the first bump of coke, the vibrancy of this moment is fucking crystalline.
No—being inside Ivy is the ultimate high.
And it has been since the very first time.
Then I’m . . . breathing hard and fast. Staring at the ceiling with one hand under my head. The rest of my limbs? Fuck knows. Draw ‘round me in chalk, and I’m a crime scene photograph. Emotionally, physically, I’m dead.
‘Dylan,’ she whispers. I can feel her trembling, and without looking, I know she’s curled the other way. ‘I d-did love you. You have to know.’
With a sigh, I draw what appears to be my hand through the wetness on my face.
‘Ivy,’ I reply quietly—I haven’t the energy for more. ‘Stay the fuck out of my head.’
Chapter 17
Ivy
I know before I lift my head from the pillow that I’m alone.
Not that I have a pillow; I’m pretty much still in the middle of the bed, just curled to the left of where Dylan and I . . .
We fucked. We didn’t make love.
So I’m alone, uncovered, and lying on top of the bed. And let me be honest for possibly the first time since I arrived in LA, I’m disgusted with myself. Not because I slept with Dylan; though, surely, I’m kidding myself there because it’s not like I fell asleep in his arms.
We fucked. We didn’t make love in any way, shape, or form.
Disgusted. And I’m not even thinking of the lies I’ve told; lies to my family, my friends—to him. No. I’m thoroughly disgusted that I’ve stooped s
o low. Was I really going to let another man inside me just to prove a point?
To prove to Dylan that he was no longer the centre of my universe?
To be victorious in the who gives less fucks war?
He didn’t hold you. He fucked.
I’ve told lies—lots of lies—but the most hurtful of them all might’ve been to myself. Last night wasn’t about gaining a divorce. It was more about punishing myself.
He treated you like you deserved.
The air conditioner whirs to life as my tears begin to seep into the sheets. I don’t remember the last time I cried; melodrama isn’t my forte. I’m more your typically stoic, Scottish type. Remaining dry-eyed for so very long, I didn’t even cry the day I left home, or the day I left what was my home to return to Scotland, I should say.
The night Dylan came home with lipstick on his zipper, I knew I deserved that, too. It was my fault he let some skank blow him. And whatever else . . . I try not to think about the specifics. My fault for being such a coward—I should’ve told him what had happened. Come clean about Ric and the things he said about our marriage. About my being a limitation to his career—a career he’d worked so hard to achieve. But I couldn’t. I let fear rule me. Fear that Ric was right. Fear that I’d never be enough for him. Because I didn’t marry Dylan Duffy, the movie star, I married Dylan, the hot guy who worked in gardens. The guy who was safe, not the guy who didn’t need me. The one who’d eventually see me for what I am—see me as ordinary. The person he’d eventually leave for someone famous and stunning and . . . not me.
It was only a matter of time before some starlet turned his head, just like Ric said. I’d already seen the looks those industry girls—Jesus, any girl—dished out when looking at him.
So I did what I had to protect me. I left him, breaking both of our hearts. And no matter how much I tell myself it was for the best, that I hate him, it still fucking hurts.