Complete Corruption (Corruption #1-3)
Page 64
He rocked back and forth, holding me as if I were the last woman in the world. I hadn’t been held like that since before the fall. I’d been broken in so many places, I was afraid to embrace anyone, but with Antonio, I wasn’t scared to be held. I’d forgotten how safe he made me feel, how loved, how trusted. He could hold me and nothing inside me would break. I was fine.
Better than fine. I was whole.
epilogue.
theresa
he food was gone. The dishes were put away. The children were bathed and kissed. A few stragglers stayed up for late night TV.
All was dark.
Except the bathroom. It was white, and the light was on. I’d loved its brightness. I’d designed it so I could see everything, but now I wanted the light dimmed. Or off. Or warmer. I leaned into the mirror. I’d just gotten out of the shower. Hair stuck to my forehead, and droplets hung under my eyes. I hadn’t given myself a good look-see in a long time, and tonight, the first night of Antonio’s return, was probably way too late.
I was nervous.
The side of the bed I kept for him was about to be filled, but so much had changed in the meantime, I didn’t know if it made sense anymore. I didn’t know what he’d been through, done, experienced while he was away. He hadn’t spoken about it during dinner or the card game after. He seemed reserved. Standoffish, even. I knew he loved me. I knew from the way he put his hand over mine at dinner and the way he looked at me.
“Hello,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.
I jumped. “You scared me.”
He crossed his arms, and the way he looked at me made me close the neck of my robe tight. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
I tried to get past him, but he didn’t budge. His cheeks were darkened with late-day growth, and his eyelids drooped a little with exhaustion. He was still the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.
“Do you like our room?” I asked.
“I like the room.”
“You can pick a different one, but this one had the nicest patio onto the orchard.”
“Theresa. I—”
“I’m sorry, it’s just…” I had constructed a hundred ways to talk to him when he hadn’t been in front of me. He pressed his hand to my cheek, and without thinking or intending it, I leaned into him, letting his palm cup me.
“Do you want to wait?” he asked. “I won’t force you.”
“No, I… this… what happened? I’m not the same. I’m ninety percent. Ninety five, actually but not the same.”
I’d forgotten how powerful he was in a room. How the energy surrounding him seemed to squeeze out everything else.
“You aren’t the same. I could have told you that.”
“I just—” I stopped myself. This was stupid. “Oh, fuck it.” I stepped into the bedroom and faced him.
“I want to kiss you,” he said. “I haven’t thought about anything but kissing you for a year and a half. If you don’t want to do anything else until you get used to me again, I accept that. But I’m kissing you before I go to sleep.”
“I want you to kiss me. You have no idea how badly I want that kiss, but first I have to show you.” I opened the robe. It was the hardest thing I’d ever did, not because I thought there was something wrong with me, but because I didn’t know how he’d react.
The scar drew his eyes first, but then they drifted all over me, the way they had that first day, and the second, and the time I swore I felt him touching me.
“I see,” he said, touching the scar on my abdomen. “Does it hurt?”
“Itches sometimes. But also, my left shoulder. I told you in the letters, but see, I can’t really do this anymore.” I shifted my shoulder back as far as it would go. Not very far. It had taken the brunt of the fall.
“You need me to be gentle,” he said.
My anxiety fell away and was replaced by irrational joy. He knew it was just as simple as that. I only needed him to know that I felt fragile, even if I wasn’t.
“I do.”
He pushed the robe off my shoulders. It fell at my feet like a snowdrift. I was naked, and he was there. Right there. My body was on fire for him.
“I want my kiss,” he breathed into my cheek, his lips grazing me.
“Come and get it.” I barely made a sound saying it, then I thought he hadn’t heard me, because he didn’t do it.
“Do you know why I haven’t kissed you all day?” he asked.
“No.”
“If I kissed you, I was going to take you. And I didn’t want a rush job in a closet.”
“If you can take me like this, you can take me.”
His lips were so soft on mine, his mouth so supple, his tongue gentle and sweet. He was slow, savoring every turn and twist of our mouths together. His hands landed on my cheeks and traveled down my neck, over my breasts. I groaned as a shudder went through me.
“I want you like this.” He leaned forward, guiding me onto the bed until I was on my back and he was on all fours over me. “And like this.” He kissed my chin and moved down to my breasts. “And this.” He put his lips on my scar. “Just like this.” He kissed my navel and below it. “God, I missed you.”
He parted my legs so tenderly yet so firmly that I knew he was still in charge, even if he wasn’t rough or demanding. He kissed between my legs, flicking his tongue over me. I hadn’t been touched in so long that my back arched, and I knew if he flicked it again—
“Stop,” I gasped. “Wait.”
He looked up from below, his hand on my knee. “Why?”
“I want to see you. I thought about your first night home all the time. And I always imagined looking at you.”
He pecked the inside of my thigh and stood at the foot of the bed. His eyes grazed over me. I thought I’d feel more self-conscious about my scar and my little crookedness. I thought I’d have to apologize for being imperfect and overcome my physical inadequacy in his sight. But I didn’t feel the need for that at all. I felt warm and loved, whole and perfect before him.
He unbuttoned his shirt.
“Was it terrible in prison?” I asked.
“It wasn’t too bad. Boring mostly. And lonely.” He undid the cuffs, shrugged the shirt off, and tossed it over a chair.
“Is it true about the showers?”
He laughed.
“I’m serious!”
“You want to know if I took a bitch in the showers?”
Then I laughed. Of course he’d never imagined anyone would top him. Santa Claus would land on the roof first.
He got out of his pants and crawled over me. His erection pressed on my thigh, and I felt two completely separate longings. One for a deep, slow connection, and the other to be torn apart until I couldn’t speak.
“Well?” I said, running my hand over his chest. “I’d forgive you as long as he was ugly.”
“They’re all ugly. It’s in the food or something.”
“Except you.”
“I wasn’t really there. I was always here with you.” He ran his lips over mine. It wasn’t a kiss but a wakening of skin.
“Capo,” I said.
“Yes, Capo?” He kissed my cheek softly.
How did I go so long without feeling his breath in my ear? It was the most exciting and distracting thing ever.
I put my hands on his jaw and pushed his face to the front of mine so we were nose to nose. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“That you went to prison for me. I wouldn’t have let you, but you did. And I’m grateful to you and mad at myself at the same time.”
“I would do it again.”
“I hope you don’t have to. I want to give the whole thing away. I’ve set it up so it runs itself. Just let it go. I think I can divide it up nicely,” I said.
“Come vuoi tu.”
“We can talk about it.”
“No talking. Just do it.”
I hitched myself and wrapped my legs around him. “Come vuoi tu
.”
He laughed softly. “Your accent, my God.”
“No more talking.” I rotated my hips, getting myself against his length.
He shifted, getting the head of his dick against me. He pushed forward, and I pushed against him. I’d forgotten about his size, and I laughed.
“What?” he asked.
“I love you. Now, fuck me already.”
He smiled, pulled my legs apart, and got on his knees. He entered me in three short bursts, each one making me gasp with pain then pleasure. Then pleasure again. And well, it was all good after that.
That night he came home, he bent over me, pressing our bodies together. I looked in his face while we made love so slowly, it was almost torture. I memorized the lines and curves of him all over again. I touched his cheeks and ran my fingers through his hair. And even when I closed my eyes because I couldn’t take the rising tide of my orgasm anymore, I kept his face in my hands and let the scent of burned pine and sweet olive blossoms meld and linger until they became a unique harmony of their own, never to be separated again.
***
I put my head on his chest and listened to him breathe.
“It’s a good room,” he said.
“It’s ours. Just ours. Let me show you the best part.”
I rolled away and opened the French doors onto the orchard. The breeze caressed his hair, flicking the ends. I sat on his side of the bed, stroking his forehead. A scar so straight it looked as if it had been drawn with a ruler shot across his temple and past his hairline. I drew my finger along it. No hair grew along its length, even past his ear, where it tapered and disappeared.
“Thank you for waiting for me,” he said.
“Tomorrow, I’ll show you your orchard. We can walk the rows.”
“How’s business?”
“Breaking even.”
“Good. Very good.” He rolled onto his side, draping his arm over my thighs. The moonlight fell on his cheek, and the mating calls of crickets filled the air. “I’m so tired. I didn’t realize until now.”
“Go to sleep, Antonio. I’m here. You can sleep now.”
The last word had barely left my lips before his eyes closed and his breathing turned even and slow. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him sleep without a care as to how he woke up. I curled up behind him, putting my lips to the back of his neck, and I thanked God for him, for our life, for the love between us that hadn’t died even when we almost did.
I was sure we would pay for our sins in either this life or the next. But maybe there was a little in us that could be saved. In this little room with a half-empty closet and a full bed, maybe salvation would come in the form of love.
Fin.
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I stuck another book in after the acknowledgements! To skip to it CLICK HERE!
Antonio and Theresa appear at the end of Forbidden, a dark, erotic journey through the eyes of Fiona Drazen.
Everything about Fiona is forbidden.
She’s a party girl with dark desires.
She’s beautiful, irresponsible, irresistible.
She’s my patient.
I’m her therapist.
I’m past past wanting her. Past possessing her. Past bedding her or protecting her.
I’m willing to be self-destructive, negligent, brave, audacious, and stronger than I ever believed possible.
She’s blunt force trauma to the heart.
And she calls another man Master.
Get Forbidden on Kindle Unlimited or buy on Amazon.com
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My email is cdreiss.writer@gmail.com.
acknowledgements.
This is an impossible task.
You can’t get everyone who helped make a book happen. That’s crazy. But once, there was a blogger who used social media to bemoan not being personally acknowledged at the end of a book because she did a giveaway. Readers piled on, asking for the author’s name so they could shun her. And I thought, “Oh my god, I can’t possibly mention every wonderful blogger who has done a giveaway for me.” This had kind of a paralyzing effect on me. I almost stopped doing blogger giveaways altogether. I’m so terrified, I don’t write acknowledgements until the very end of a series, almost guaranteeing I’ll forget someone. That’s irony for you.
So I’m doing a list. Here it is. I’m not saying what anyone did because you all know what you did. You know you were instrumental in making these books happen, and if you don’t, YOU WERE. Writing is a solitary endeavor in bursts, but overall, from betas to editors to cheerleaders, writers need people. And publishing is even more of a team sport. Anyone who says this is a solitary endeavor has never actually published anything. I’m sorry. No one does this alone.
Gabri Canova, Erik Gevers, Tony and Diane, Kaylee, Jean esq, Nina, Roxy, Bella, Irene O, Michelle, Stephanie, Becs, the entire team at iBooks, Maura, Mary, Lisa, Lael, Lynn, Cassie, Goddess of the emotional realm—Angela Smith, Kristy/Lauren/Laurelin, the EC, FYW, BGP, every fan who kept me going when I wanted to announce I wasn’t writing this book because it was too damned hard.
My family tolerates me, and I love them so much. D-Sleepy, A-Bomb, Lady Nono.
Ciao.
Though the Downtown Gate Club is a figment of my imagination, there are tunnels under Downtown Los Angeles. Because they are closed to the public, I went to the tunnels in Pendleton, Oregon for my research. My LA underground is based on those. Any actual differences with the actual LA tunnels are just too damn bad. I do my best with what I’ve got.
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If you like swoony heroes and Hollywood love stories, check out the USA Today Bestselling Shuttergirl.
I never forgot her. Not for one minute. Not from the last time I saw her, at seventeen, to today. I measured all women against her and all women came up short. But being with her was unfeasible in high school, and it's taboo now. I see her sometimes, but I've never spoken to her. She runs, or I run. We're in the same town, on the same block, in the same building, and the gulf between us is just too wide to cross.
Until tonight.
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He was my high school crush, back when I lived in a world that didn't want me. He was the perfect boy, and I was the outcast kid from the other side of town. And when he held my hand I thought I could fit in, just a little. I thought I could be his and he could be mine. Then he left, and my life fell apart. Now we are the king and queen of opposite sides of Hollywood. And we haven't spoken a word to each other.
Until tonight.
Buy Shuttergirl here.
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Have you read the Songs of Submission?
No?
Because Theresa’s brother, Jonathan has this whole thing happening with Monica, that singer with the short-circuiting mouth, and it’s all kinds of epic length.
1) Beg/Tease/Submit
2) Control/Burn/Resist
3) Sing/Coda/Dominance
You can also take small bites by getting the novellas.
1) Beg
2) Tease
3) Submit
4) Control
5) Burn
6) Resist
7) Sing
8) Dominance (Jonathan's POV's)
9) Coda
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Join the mailing list HERE.
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beg.
The Submission Series - Book One
one.
At the height of singing the last note, when my lungs were still full and I was switching from pure physical power to emotion
al thrust, I was blindsided by last night’s dream. Like most dreams, it hadn’t had a story. I was on top of a grand piano on the rooftop bar of Hotel K. The fact that the real hotel didn’t have a piano on the roof notwithstanding, I was on it and naked from the waist down, propped on my elbows. My knees were spread further apart than physically possible. Customers drank their thirty-dollar drinks and watched as I sang. The song didn’t have words, but I knew them well, and as the strange man with his head between my legs licked me, I sang harder and harder until I woke up with an arched back and soaked sheets, hanging on to a middle C for dear life.
Same as the last note of our last song, and I held it like a stranger was pleasuring me on a nonexistent piano. I drew that last note out for everything it was worth, pulling from deep inside my diaphragm, feeling the song rattle the bones of my rib cage, sweat pouring down my face. It was my note. The dream told me so. Even after Harry stopped strumming and Gabby’s keyboard softened to silence, I croaked out the last tearful strain as if gripping the edge of a precipice.
When I opened my eyes in the dark club, I knew I had them; every one of them stared at me as if I had just ripped out their souls, put them in envelopes, and sent them back to their mothers, COD. Even in the few silent seconds after I stopped, when most singers would worry that they’d lost the audience, I knew I hadn’t; they just needed permission to applaud. When I smiled, permission was granted, and they clapped all right.
Our band, Spoken Not Stirred, had brought down the Thelonius Room. A year of writing and rehearsing the songs and a month getting bodies in the door had paid off right here, right now.
The crowd. That was what it was all about. That was why I busted my ass. That was why I had shut out everything in my life but putting a roof over my head and food in my mouth. I didn’t want anything from them but that ovation.