by Simone Stark
“I should turn you over my knee for keeping this from me. And maybe I will.” The words rioted through her, making her pulse for him. “Oh…you like that idea, don’t you, baby?”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“I can see it. I can see how you’re aching for me.” He set one finger to her clit, circling with a barely-there touch, then down to the opening of her, where she ached for him, so much that she thought she might cry if he didn’t stop teasing her. “You’re so wet here. Goddammit…this pussy. This fucking perfect pussy. Cher,” he promised, his accent thick and gorgeous, “I’m gon’ eat you up…until you can’t move for comin’ so long and hard.”
This could not be real.
And then he made good on his promise, setting his tongue to her, licking and sucking, long and slow, with more focus than she could bear. “Roux,” she panted, her hand coming to his hair, her fingers clenching, holding him like he was the only thing in the world—and in that moment, he was.
He growled his response, his tongue working in slow, steady licks as though he could stay there, on her floor, between her legs, in her pussy, forever.
And she might want it—this gorgeous man with his glorious tongue flicking gently over her clit. Too gently. “Please. Roux.”
He stopped just long enough to hook her legs over his broad shoulders and get close. Just long enough to say, his accent thick and hoarse, “Tell me what you want.”
She didn’t even hesitate. Who even was she? What had he done to her? “Harder,” she panted. And he gave it to her, flattening his tongue and rubbing it over her again and again as she cried out. “My clit. Right there. Oh, God.” She rocked against him, begging for more, not even knowing what she wanted, until he pushed one thick finger into her and she gasped at the immense pleasure of it, “Yes. Roux. Please. Don’t stop.”
A second finger joined the first, filling her as his tongue—God, his thick, magnificent tongue—wreaked havoc and she was there.
And he stopped.
Fingers stilled. He pulled back.
“What—”
“Shh,” he said, stroking those fingers once, deep.
She groaned. She’d never made that sound before. “No. Don’t—”
“Shh,” he repeated, “I wan’ look.”
She writhed, lifting her hips against his fingers, slow and relentless and commanding. “Look later.”
He laughed. Bastard. “Non. I wan’ look now.” A brush of his beard on her thighs as he leaned in. A long stream of breath over her straining flesh. “That fucking clit, cher. That little hard clit, just begging for me. I imagined it every fucking night. In the desert, tired an’ dark an’ dirty—thinking of this perfect, desperate, throbbing clit kept me alive.”
She almost came from the words. Almost.
“I thought about licking it, soft and slow.” He showed her what he meant. “And then hard and fast.” And again, until she was crying out and her hips were bucking beneath him, the rhythm of his fingers inside her unchanging. “But really, I thought about sucking on it, baby. Just like this.”
And then he was doing just that. Wicked pulls, quick and unbearable, lips working, tongue flicking against her, unrelenting, like a promise. Like a punishment.
Making good on his vow to make her come harder than she’d ever come before, fucking her with his fingers and tongue while she screamed his name, and she fell apart beneath him. He stayed there, letting her use him, rocking against him, working herself over him, until she lost control of her muscles and returned to the bed, shaking with pleasure. Weak with it. Lost to it.
And still he stayed, his lips and tongue still, his fingers still, until she settled, her fingers unknotting from his hair. He pressed a soft kiss there, letting out a low growl of pleasure when she sighed in response. And then he spoke, low and commanding. “Again.”
“I can’t—”
“Not a request.” He growled against her, licking again, his thick tongue curling around her, working over her, fucking into her, and his fingers were everywhere, painting over all her most secret places, lower and lower as he ate at her again and again, ravenous. Like he’d been starving and she was food.
And she was whispering her own commands.
And he was following them.
And she was coming again and again, her legs shaking and weak from pleasure.
He rose up over her, taking her lips. “So fucking wet. So fucking sweet. Taste yourself.” He licked deep and she did taste it, sweet and tangy and all for him.
When he lifted his mouth from hers, they were both gasping for breath, and her fingers were at his waist, lifting the edge of his sweater, pulling it up over his head, and then he was bare above her—all inked skin and wild heat, like a god.
He was so magnificent—she didn’t know what to do.
“Touch me,” he said, the words coming out like gravel. “Fuck, Abby. I’ve been waiting for you to touch me for months.”
She’d been waiting, too, and when she did they released a long breath together—like they’d been holding it forever. He lowered himself over her, his muscles like solid steel, rippling beneath her fingers as he kissed her again, even as she made for his waist, to the fastening of his jeans.
“I’m going to—“ She gasped when he licked at her neck again.
“Fuck, yes. Take me out.”
She was already unbuttoning him, though how her fingers were working was beyond her, pushing his jeans and boxer briefs down until he was there, his cock hard and hot and perfect, and they were both groaning at the feel of her hands on him.
He thrust into her hands with a long, lush grunt as she explored him, strong and soft, his tip throbbing. She ran a thumb over it, reveling in the precome there, and he hissed another curse and she smiled, continuing her search, finding the heavy sac at the base of his cock, cupping it gently as she bared him, pushing his clothes down over his hips as he growled and swore and held himself above her, giving her enough space to explore him. To torture him.
“Abby.” He leaned down and took the tip of one breast into his mouth, suckling until the pleasure had her tightening her grip and he groaned. “Baby, I—”
“Don’t wait,” she whispered, opening for him, stroking him, setting him to her. “Don’t make me wait.”
He released a long breath and kissed her, a long, lingering stroke of his tongue that made her more impossibly wet. He rocked against her. “You’re so wet. I’ve never felt anything like you.”
“Only for you,” she whispered as he slid into her, a long, slow thrust that had them both moaning in pleasure.
When he was seated to the hilt, filling her perfectly, growling a string of French at her ear, and she was raking her nails over his big, broad shoulders, she thought she would die of the sensation. And then he whispered, in English, “You lied to me and I could have been thinking of this.”
Another thrust, slow and lingering. And another. And another, until she couldn’t bear it. “Roux,” she cried at his ear.
“Tell me what you want, cher.”
“I want you.” No hesitation.
“How?”
She closed her eyes and lifted her hips to meet him. “Hard.”
He gave her a little taste and her eyes slid shut on her moan. “Like that?” And again. “Tell me, baby.”
She was lost, begging him. “Like that. Faster. Don’t stop.”
He gave her everything she begged for, fucking into her hard and hot and thick and gorgeous, and she was crying for more of him with every thrust. And then his lips found her ear again as his fingers cupped her ass, one of them finding that place no one but he had ever touched, rubbing in a slow, glorious, unspeakable circle there, setting her on fire as he thrust into her, long and deep and perfect enough to make her think she might die.
She met him thrust for thrust, arching her back, begging for him to make her come again.
“Please…Roux,” she panted.
“So hot…” he growled, fucking i
nto her, making her ache. Making her pant. Making her want him there, inside her, forever. And that finger—that wicked, wonderful finger—knowing what she wanted even when she had no idea, swirling and stroking and making her wild. “So fucking hot. Abby…”
“Roux, I’m…”
“I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
“I don’t…” The orgasm was coming too fast.
“I do.”
She couldn’t manage it. Couldn’t control it. “I can’t…”
“I can. Take it. I’m with you. I’ll keep you safe.”
And he did…as she came hard around him, milking his thick length with tight, uncontrollable movements, until he was groaning her name and growling his pleasure and joining her, coming in long, heavy thrusts that consumed her, again and again, until he sank into her, above her, around her, weakened and breathing heavily and somehow still protecting her from his full weight.
Weight she wanted. She clenched her muscles around him, drawing a final, long groan as he gave it to her, collapsing to bury his face against her neck. He swore, her nails scoring down his broad back at the sound. “Christ, Abby. That was…” He trailed off, kissing her neck, tonguing the skin there with an electric lick.
He lifted his head, looked down at her with those magnificent brown eyes, as though he was searching for her. She blushed. She’d never been seen so well. And by someone so…
“Perfect,” he said. “It was perfect.”
It was perfect. He was perfect.
Which was the problem, of course.
Because she was not.
She looked away.
“No,” he said, the word stern and commanding enough to snap her attention back to his. His fingers came to her cheek, pushing her hair back from her face as he searched it for clues.
When he didn’t find the answers he was looking for, he pulled out of her, lifted himself from her, leaving her empty and aching, her body desperate for him to come back.
She sat up, pulling the throw at the end of the bed over herself. Missing him. Wanting him. Wondering if she’d ever not want him.
He came to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs off the side, running his fingers through his hair, making her mouth water with every stunning, rippling muscle. There was a puckered scar high on his shoulder. A bullet wound, long healed. She hated it. Loved it.
Loved him.
She loved him.
She reached out to tell him, aching to touch him, her fingers barely grazing his back. He turned immediately, catching her hand in his massive warm grip. Looked down at her. “Are you married?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT WAS the only thing he could think of that would keep her from him. That would have made her send him a fake photo. There was nothing else he could imagine that would keep him from claiming her. From loving her. From spending the rest of his life with her.
But the moment the question was out of his mouth, the horror in her eyes revealed the truth. “What? No!”
Relief shot through him with such force that he reached up to rub the place where it pooled in his chest. Thank Christ. Everything else could be managed.
“Is there another man?” He forced the question out, even as he wondered how he would handle the idea of another man touching her. Kissing her. Knowing the feel of her skin, the taste of her.
Roux had always thought women should have sex when they wanted and with whomever they wanted, but his enlightenment was now AWOL and he was ready to go ten rounds with any man who even looked at Abby. She was his. And if that made him a fucking Neanderthal, it made him a fucking Neanderthal. There were worse ideas than tossing her over his shoulder and taking her to bed for a lifetime.
And, like that, he was hard again.
“N—no,” she stuttered, and he heard the truth there. Believed it even before she repeated herself. “No. Roux. No. There is no one else.”
“Is it the Army? I can see that. Seven tours—” He’d seen what combat did to men. He’d seen what it had done to him. But he used psych services and he would never hurt her—she had to know that—
“What?” She came up on her knees then, clutching the blanket to herself and cutting him off. “No. Roux. It’s not. It’s not you. How could it be you? You’re…” She waved a hand at him. “I mean…you’re incredible.”
When she looked at him like that, flushed and perfect, with those wide brown eyes and those soft lips and all that beautiful hair, and she spoke with that breathy urgency, she made him feel incredible. She made him feel like a fucking god.
“Then what? Why don’t you want this?” The words ached in his chest. He’d do anything for her. This goddess of a woman. Anything to keep her. Anything to make her happy.
He’d been alone so long, and Abby—she felt like home. She had since that first letter. He wasn’t sure he could give her up now that he’d had a taste of it.
She looked down at her lap. “I do. Roux. I do. I want it so much.”
The words were full of need—the same need he was feeling. He turned to face her, loving the way her gaze raked over his chest. She swallowed, the little movement in her throat making him want to kiss her until they were both breathless.
She wanted him. He could see it in the color on her cheeks. He could hear it in her shallow breaths. Her heart was racing. Just as his was.
She met his eyes, this woman he loved beyond reason, but for some reason couldn’t have. “Then why?”
She shook her head. “Because men like you…you don’t end up with girls like me.”
What did that mean?
When he asked her, she looked down at the comforter, unable to meet his gaze. “Don’t make me say it.”
It was his turn to shake his head. “You’re gon’ have to say it because as far as I’m concerned, there isn’t another woman on Earth I intend to end up with. It’s you or nothing.”
Her eyes went wide, and pleasure shot through him. She liked it when he laid claim to her? He could do that all day. He was just about to when she reached for him, her fingers trailing over his chest, sliding over his tattoos. “You are—” She hesitated, her voice filled with awe. “You are so beautiful.”
She made him feel beautiful. When he spoke, emotion shredded the words, bringing them out like gravel. “Nah, cher. I’m all scars and marks.”
She ignored him. “You are, though. You’re so beautiful and I’m…” She trailed off and shook her head. “Not.”
Understanding flared, almost incomprehensible. Stealing his breath. Holy shit. Holy shit. She thought she wasn’t beautiful? “Abby.” She didn’t look at him. “Abigail.” She met his gaze, her eyes like heaven, stealing his breath. “When you sent me those pictures, the ones of—your sister, I’m guessing?”
She nodded. “I didn’t mean to send the second one. The one with me.”
He wasn’t letting her out of this bed until she understood how fucking perfect she was. “Well, that’s a damn shame, cher, because that was the one that made me hard as steel.” He moved then, pushing her back on the bed, caging her in his arms. “That was the one that stole my breath.” He pressed a kiss to the place where her neck and shoulder met, feeling her wild pulse there. “That was the one that stole my heart.”
She blushed. “Roux.”
He kissed her. Quick and deep. Released her, her sigh rioting through him as he slid the blanket from her fingers, tossing it away. “Shh. I’m telling you something, béb.” She blinked. He nodded, unable to look away from her gorgeous curves, soft and welcoming. “Bon. Now. I had to put those pictures away, sweetheart.”
Unable to stop himself, he crawled over her until she was lying back on the bed.
“Because every time I thought about that beautiful brunette…” He took her lips again, long and slow. “Every time I though about you…I got hard.” He pressed against her, loving her gasp. “Hard like this. Aching like this. Desperate to feel her underneath me. Wanting to taste her. To lick her.”
Her thighs opened l
ike heaven, and he settled between them.
“To taste you,” he whispered at her ear. She whimpered. He could get used to that sound. “I wanted to eat your pussy for days, cher.”
She panted in his ear, arching up to him.
He lifted himself up, the hardest thing he’d ever done, made harder when she sighed his name.
He licked along the soft skin of her jaw. “You wan’ that, too, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
She was killing him. But he had things to say. “I wanted it to be you, beautiful. I wanted it to be your pretty pink paper and your pretty pink skin and your pretty brown eyes and your—” He paused, rocking into her until they both groaned with pleasure. “Fucking gorgeous body. I was hard for you, Abby. And when I came in the desert, hot and hard and desperate, I was thinking of you.”
She exhaled, the breath shaking from her, and then she confessed. “I wanted it to be me.”
He kissed her shoulder, running his tongue down her skin to the hard, tight tip of one breast, suckling the way he’d already learned she loved. Licking over her puckered skin and drawing deep, making them both shake with pleasure. “It was you,” he whispered, sinking lower, licking over the stunning, soft curves of her, tasting her skin. “It was this body.”
How could she not see how gorgeous she was?
He’d just have to show her. Every day. Forever.
“These thighs…” He was spreading those beautiful thighs, kissing them, rubbing his beard along all that precious, soft skin, until she was panting, and he was desperate for another taste. “It was this pussy, Abby.”
He spread her open, letting a long stream of air blow over her, watching as her little clit pulsed. “You want me here,” he whispered. “I can see you aching for me.”
A little whimper came from her—desire mixed with embarrassment. “But you don’t have to—”
He cut her off with a lazy stroke, the pad of his index finger right where she throbbed for him. When she cried out her pleasure, he nipped his own at the top of her thigh. “Let’s be clear, cher, there’s nothing about this moment that is a have to. It’s all a want to. The things I want to do to you, baby…they are fucking filthy.”