Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1)

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

But they stared. They kept on staring at Ash, stealing furtive glances, as if he was a flamingo who’d accidentally landed on a duck pond, foreign, fascinating, but in the wrong place.

  He looked so different from the men in my family, darker, more exotic. His accent had a strange slur to it so the words rolled into each other, especially when he talked quickly.

  But they were trying. We were all trying.

  I was surprised when Eric and Ash struck up a conversation about soccer, and Ash revealed that he was a supporter of the Spanish team Barcelona. I asked if there were any famous soccer teams in Slovenia, but he and Eric laughed at my ignorance, so I butted out. Ash was doing fine without me.

  I started to relax for the first time since Collin had opened his big mouth. I think I knew how he’d found out: one of his college friends worked at the clerk’s office where we were married. I didn’t know they were close friends, but I suppose the circumstances were unusual enough for Andy to get in touch with Collin. Not that it made a difference now.

  Ash was right about one thing: it was more of a relief than I’d expected now that my family knew. I watched him talking with animation, energy pouring from him; so different from the angry, volatile man he’d been earlier. It reminded me that I didn’t know him, my husband, that well. I had time to find out—except that our marriage had a two-year expiration date.

  After more food and more drink, Ash’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright. He grinned at me, leaning in to kiss my neck. And despite the warmth of the crowded kitchen, a small shiver raced under my skin.

  How good of an actor was he? It felt real, but was it?

  Then from the living room, the sound of cèilidh music floated into the kitchen.

  “Come on,” Paddy laughed. “Let’s show Ash some real dancing!”

  My family was so Irish it was almost cliché: music, dancing, Guinness. I really thought I must be a throwback because I was the only person in my family who hadn’t inherited the tall, red-haired genes; the only one who couldn’t dance or carry a tune; and I never drank Guinness.

  Ash followed the stampede next door, then suddenly realized I wasn’t with him, turned back and pulled me up from the table.

  “Come!”

  “Ash, no!” I wailed. “Everyone knows I can’t dance!”

  “Yes, you can,” he laughed happily.

  He dragged me into the living room, ignoring the smirks. My whole family knew I was hopeless—totally rhythm-proof. But Ash simply lifted me up and whirled me around so my feet didn’t even touch the floor. I locked my arms around his neck, laughing at his mischievous smile as we danced around the room, my feet swinging somewhere around his shins.

  We were dancing, together, our rhythm matching perfectly, because I was moving to his rhythm. His strong arms were wrapped around my waist, and my cheek rested softly against his. With Ash, I could dance.

  We spent the rest of the evening with my family, and it felt good. I could see the questions in their eyes, but they let us just . . . be.

  It was only slightly awkward when we went to bed. After all, it wasn’t the first time Ash and I had shared a bed, only this one didn’t leave much space between us. I was hanging onto the edge, trying not to fall off, but however I angled myself, some part of me was touching Ash. In the end, after several minutes of both of us failing to get comfortable, he grunted with frustration, rolled me onto my side, and wound his long body behind me, so his chest was pressed against my back.

  “Sleep,” he said, his warm breath blowing across the back of my neck.

  I jerked awake as Ash’s elbow crashed into my ribs and he cried out. Then some garbled words in a long moan as his body thrashed around.

  I struggled to free myself from his arms and roll over, but when I did, I saw that his eyes were tightly shut and a thin layer of sweat made his skin glisten in the scattered moonlight.

  “Ash, wake up!”

  He yelled again, then sat bolt upright, his eyes wild, panic turning them into black pools.

  He reacted suddenly, but it wasn’t what I expected.

  His lips crashed down on mine with bruising force and I gasped as his heavy body pressed me into the mattress. Shocked, I pushed hard on his shoulders, but he lifted only slightly, moving his mouth to my neck, his hands tightly gripping my waist.

  “Laney,” he muttered hoarsely. “My wife.”

  Was it a statement, a question, an invitation? I couldn’t tell, but I did hear the need in his voice, and as one hand brushed against my hip and squeezed hard, my body leapt.

  This was weeks of pretending I didn’t want him. This was two months of ignoring our mutual attraction. This was the man who had crashed into my life and painted it with color. This was the missing piece.

  “Ash, I want . . .”

  “Laney, I need . . .”

  We spoke at the same time, but his mouth slid to my throat, to my breastbone, and whatever words he was going to say were lost. Then his teeth bit through the material of my pajamas, fastening around the hard nipple, and I gasped.

  He knelt up, ripping his sweat soaked t-shirt from his body while my hungry hands pushed the waistband of his shorts over his hips and the curve of his ass. He kicked them off impatiently and his whole long, lean body was revealed briefly, his thighs solid, his cock rigid. He braced himself over me, then his head dipped and he dragged my shirt up with his teeth and ripped my pajama pants from my legs with one hand.

  A second later he was inside me, my body barely prepared.

  I cried out as he pushed my knees up, sinking deeper, and this time a zing of pleasure ran up my spine, then settled low in my belly.

  Ash’s eyes were closed, his forehead lined with a deep frown, his dark head bent.

  Then he buried his face in my neck, pumping so hard the bed shook and creaked. I was right: he fucked like he danced—intense and full of passion, utterly focused.

  I felt wanted, needed, all woman, desirable and desired.

  It was so sudden and furious, so urgent, answering a craving I hadn’t acknowledged, so surprising, so shocking, so intoxicating. One hit and I was hooked.

  I hung onto his shoulders as he pounded into me, trying to lock my legs around his waist, but the chaotic, thrusting force of his dick ramming into me shook me loose. All I could do was hold him against me.

  Sweat slicked our chests together, my breasts flattened almost painfully.

  He came suddenly with a growl and I felt the pulse of hot cum inside me, making me cry out.

  “Ash!”

  Hearing my voice, he froze, then lifted his head slowly, a sort of wide-eyed wonder on his face.

  “Laney?”

  He stared at me, shock and disbelief clear on his beautiful face. I gasped, my clit shooting bolts of pleasure through my body.

  “I was dreaming,” he whispered. “I thought I was dreaming.”

  “Feels real to me,” I whispered, loosening my fierce grip on his shoulders.

  He pulled out abruptly, making me wince, and as his cum leaked out of me, the level of embarrassment for both of us was painful.

  He swung his long legs so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

  “God, I’m so sorry, Laylay,” he said, his body trembling. “Moj sonček, I’m so sorry.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. My body was warm and satiated, but my mind was traveling a million miles an hour.

  “I . . . um . . . I’d better go clean up,” I muttered.

  I grabbed my robe from the floor and hurried to the bathroom, feeling moist and uncomfortable as semen continued to trickle down my thighs.

  I cleaned up quickly then took a deep breath, trying to process what had happened, or rather, what it meant for me, for Ash, for us.

  He so obviously regretted what had happened. I ought to—God, he hadn’t even known it was me, had he? But somehow, I couldn’t regret it. I wanted him. From the first time I’d seen him, the attraction had been intense, but so much had come between us. L
ife had been cruel.

  When I opened the bedroom door, he looked up. He was in the same position, still sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “I hurt you.”

  His sharp cheekbones threw shadows across his face, and his eyes were clouded.

  “I was surprised,” I said quietly, sitting next to him.

  He searched my face for any trace of a lie, or pain, or fear, but seemed satisfied as I watched him steadily.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly, his eyes dropping to his empty hands.

  “For what?”

  His gaze shot up to meet mine, questions in his dark eyes.

  “I think I went a little crazy,” he said, his words bumping together as his body worked through a long shudder.

  “I think we both did,” I said, taking one of his hands in mine.

  Our fingers wove together and he studied our joined hands before speaking again.

  “You’re really okay?”

  “Ash, if you buy me daisies instead of tulips, I will lie and say I love them; if you eat the last cookie and leave the jar empty, I’ll lie and say I wasn’t hungry; if you wear socks with sandals, I’ll lie and say I don’t care—but I promise, I’m not lying about this.”

  I leaned forward and kissed his bare shoulder, his skin cool and satin smooth.

  “You’re cold. Come back to bed.”

  He sighed and his shoulders lifted a little as if a great weight had been released.

  He was still naked, but unembarrassed by his body. Unlike me. Despite what we’d just done, I slipped my pajamas back on before sliding into bed.

  He pulled me against him immediately, shivering only slightly when our legs tangled and my cold feet pressed against his calves.

  He shifted, his body tense.

  “Laney,” he said, his voice still uncertain. “I didn’t use a condom.”

  “It’s fine,” I said calmly. “I have an IUD. I can’t get pregnant.”

  There was a long pause, the night drawing out the moment.

  Then his arms tightened around me again. “Laney, I . . .”

  I stroked his strong forearms as they held me.

  “No, not now. In the daylight—that’s when we’ll work things out. Now, in the darkness, we’ll just hold each other. Tonight, let’s believe the fairytale.”

  His arms relaxed a fraction and I felt his soft lips in my hair.

  All the worries, all the fears were silenced within that deep quiet of my aunt’s bedroom, one cold Chicago night.

  Light was filtering through the thin curtains when I woke up. I was immediately aware of the large solid body behind me, not least because Ash was holding my boob and his erection was pressing into my ass.

  What had happened last night, now, in the daylight, it felt awkward.

  I was about to try and slide out of the bed without waking him, when Ash’s long fingers flexed as he swam toward wakefulness, squeezing my breast gently. I gasped, and he stroked my hard nipple, moving his hips in a rocking motion.

  I turned in his arms, and for a moment his eyelids drooped and he let out a long sigh. He looked up again, watching me carefully as his fingers slid under my shirt, stroking the soft skin between my small breasts, then closing his hand over the warm flesh.

  A sigh of pleasure turned into a moan of arousal and that sparked a fire in Ash.

  “Last night was too fast,” he murmured, his voice husky in my ear. “I want to make love to my wife.”

  Ash

  I’d never used a woman the way I’d used Laney last night, and I was ashamed. It had just been fucking, proving to myself that I wasn’t what the bastard had tried to make me. I was no one’s bitch. I’d rather die. And I mean that in the literal put-a-gun-to-my-head-and-pull-the-fucking-trigger way.

  But even in my half-waking, half-dreaming state, it wasn’t the violent crash of urgent, thoughtless physical release that I’d had with Yveta: it was more. I just wasn’t sure why or how much more. It didn’t make sense, but it did. We weren’t a match, but we were. We weren’t in love, but we were married.

  I respected her, admired her, and she deserved more than heated rutting at the dark end of a nightmare. And if all I had to give her was a warm body with a frozen heart, then I’d make it the best I could.

  I kissed down her shoulder and arm, turning her so she was on her back, staring up at me. Surprise became desire, turning her eyes smoky, and she took my hand and pressed it between her legs. Her gray eyes held mine as my hand slipped from the waistband of her pajamas. My fingers met the soft cotton between her thighs, already damp.

  “Please,” she whispered, her voice soft and aching.

  “Beautiful wife, what do you like?” I asked, kissing down her neck as her back arched, pressing her covered breasts against my bare chest.

  I paused, meeting her eyes, seeing a faint flush of embarrassment.

  She laughed awkwardly. “Just the usual stuff, you know?”

  “Hmm, well, this morning I will make your body our playground, yes? Stop me if there’s something you don’t like.” I was serious for a moment. “I don’t have anything. All I have is my body. I like fucking. I’m good at it. Last night wasn’t . . . I want to make you feel good.”

  And it’s all I have to offer. Because sex makes you feel alive. Because you’re so fucking sexy and you don’t even know it, because you’re stunning, so brave, and because I know we’ll be amazing together.

  “This is for you, Laney.”

  “I liked the massage you gave me,” she said, smiling up at me, her cheeks pink.

  “But that sent you to sleep,” I argued, puzzled.

  “Not before it turned me on,” she grinned with a glint in her eye.

  I remembered how that night had ended, with her watching me jerk off.

  Smiling, I undressed her slowly—far too many clothes for what I wanted to do. Then I rolled her onto her stomach, pouring her favorite body lotion onto my hands, warming it before I placed a dot on every freckle across her back.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, trying to see over her shoulder.

  “Playing,” I answered. “Joining the dots. I wonder what picture this will make. Hmm, looks like a sexy woman.”

  She gave a husky laugh that made my cock twitch. Greedy bastard would have to wait—this was about Laney.

  Although, childish as it sounds, I couldn’t resist using the warmed lotion to write Mrs. Novak across her back. Then I started at her shoulders, smoothing out the tight muscles as she moaned and groaned. My dick was making it hard to concentrate, a third guest at the party, rubbing down her spine, dragging through the lotion as I worked her muscles.

  I took the easy way out and headed down to her feet, pressing my thumbs into her soles. But even there, the noises she made, the warm scent of her skin, it was driving me to a new level of madness. I glanced down at my dick, unsurprised to see the head leaking. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the way my balls were tightening and begging for release.

  My thumbs dug into the back of her calves. She moaned again and my dick jerked in sympathy.

  Her pert little ass made me lose it. Those two soft globes were more than a flesh and blood man could stand.

  I pulled her hips upward, forgetting to warn her, so she face-planted in her pillow. Her muffled words barely made me pause as I pushed the tip of my pinkie finger into her little puckered hole.

  “I don’t do that!” she snorted, her cheeks flaming as she pulled the pillow from her face and glared at me.

  I slid my finger in and out slowly, raising an eyebrow as her mouth dropped open and a soft “Oh!” rounded her lips.

  “Just playing, my wife,” I said, leaning forward to kiss the back of her neck.

  I couldn’t help wanting to say that again: my wife. The words intrigued me, like a new toy that came without instructions.

  “Well, my husband,” she said, a hint of steel in her voice, “you’re not getting anal: exit only! We clear?”

  I laughed, easin
g my finger in a little deeper while circling her clit at the same time.

  My husband—even more intriguing.

  “Very clear, my love. I’m just playing. Doesn’t that feel good?”

  “Yes, very,” she sighed. “But, I’m not . . .”

  I slid my index finger into her wet pussy and her words faded away. Her back arched and she shook her honey-colored hair over her shoulders, pushing her ass against my hand so my finger sunk in further.

  I could smell the musk in the air as her arousal, my arousal raised the temperature in the chilled room.

  There was so much more I wanted to do, to please her, pleasure her.

  I slid flat on the bed and tongued her from behind. A sharp gasp outlined her surprise, and I tasted her sweet little pussy for the first time, dipping my tongue inside, circling her clit.

  She surprised us both by coming immediately, her small body shaking, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

  She collapsed onto her stomach, breathing heavily, then she giggled—such a beautiful sound.

  “That was . . . unexpected!”

  I stretched out next to her, pulling her heated body against mine, and letting my lips drift up behind her ear.

  Even though my cock had been stiff for the last 30 minutes, I was content to rest next to her, pulling the quilt over our cooling bodies.

  I was almost asleep when I felt her warm, wet lips close over the head of my cock.

  “No!”

  I pushed her shoulders roughly, knocking her backward.

  From peaceful bliss, I was suddenly back in that Las Vegas bathroom, Sergei on his knees trying to arouse my flaccid dick, Oleg gripping my arms.

  I pushed away the darkness, pulling myself toward the light—and turned to see Laney’s frightened face.

  “Laylay, I . . .”

  Horror, the horror at what I’d done, nearly done, what had been done to me—I retched. Laney shot out of bed, managing to grab a small trashcan just in time. I gripped the cold metal and emptied my stomach. Again and again.

  I was only vaguely aware that she’d left the room, but then I felt a cool washcloth against my feverish forehead, my cheeks, my mouth.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”