Not My Heart to Break

by W Winters

  “I didn’t say you could turn around,” he scolds me, although the lust in his voice and the desire in his gaze are so clear, it feels nothing like a reprimand.

  “You didn’t say I couldn’t,” I argue lustily, setting the side of my head back down, taking him in and letting him know just how much I want him. How much I need him.

  “Keep your eyes on me then,” he speaks calmly as he walks behind me. With one hand stroking himself, I can already see the beads of precum at his velvety head. “How many men did you fuck?” he asks and I blink twice, rapidly.

  Hesitating, he urges me to answer with his hand splayed on my lower back. He brings his knuckles up my back to my shoulders and then back down.

  “It’s been eight years,” I tell him as if that’s an answer. His erection presses between my folds, thick and hard as he rocks against me. The groan he lets out, fuck, I could cum to that sound any night. He bends down when I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation. With his hips pressing against my ass and his cock nudging my clit, the pleasure builds again.

  “Open your eyes,” he commands, his stubble brushing against my shoulder and I watch as he closes his own and kisses the crook of my neck.

  I miss this.

  I have dreamed of him doing just this for years.

  “How many men did you fuck?” he asks me again, this time in a whisper, his warm breath sending shivers of want down my body.

  “Many,” I answer him and remember how none of them compared. How at first it was hard trying to find someone who I could hide my past from, but share my present. Then it was simply about trying to find anyone who could fill a portion of the void.

  Seth chuckles, deep and rough, his chest vibrating against my back. “You’re my little slut now.” His comment only makes me hotter for him.

  “So tell me, my little whore, how many pricks got to play with what’s mine?”

  “Not whore,” I argue, barely able to get out the words as I shake my head against the fabric and practically moan my reply. “Slut.” I repeat the word, clenching around nothing again and imagining him inside of me.

  “My little slut,” he whispers and the feel of his warm breath along my skin brings the pleasure closer to the surface, closer to igniting all of me.

  “How many pricks got to play with what’s mine?”

  I stare back at him, unable to answer as he grips my hair at the back of my neck, still rocking his hips, still playing with me. Still wanting me.

  I can’t speak as the pleasure builds.

  “You’re not allowed to cum until I know how many times to deprive you. I need to know how many times.”

  Defiantly, my back arches as my orgasm rips through me.

  Seth stills behind me and I clench against the shaft of his cock. It’s a blinding pleasure. I can barely breathe.

  “Ever defying me aren’t you, Babygirl?” Seth scolds me, taking more of my hair in his fist and pulling back when I look away from him. The tight grip sends a stinging pain along my skin, but it only heightens the pleasure.

  “Does thinking about being punished get you off?” he asks.

  “Thinking that you cared who I fucked… that gets me off.” The admission comes out willingly, easily.

  Seth King still wants me. He wants me to be his. That realization comes with one of my own. I want to be his. I’ve been waiting to be his again.

  Seth

  It takes every ounce of control not to cum with her. Her cheeks are flushed, as pink as her ass where the braided marks have left impressions on her skin. She’s everything I remember and more.

  The memories don’t do her justice.

  Knowing how easy it was to get her off drives me insane. How much she still wants me, enough to let this strong woman, want to be called my little slut… fuck, I could cum without even entering her.

  The fire at my back is nothing compared to the crackling air between us.

  “How many?” I question her. Ignoring the screaming rage in my head, demanding she be punished for not listening to me. She wasn’t allowed to get off until I’d punished her for each and every one.

  “Not enough,” she answers, her eyes closing but the moment I pull back on her hair, just slightly, just enough to control her, her baby blues sink into mine and she adds, “I tried to fuck the memories of you out of me.”

  “Did it work?” With the question lingering between us, my heart slams against my chest, racing to get out of me.

  “Not even for a single moment,” she whispers, and the pain creeps back into the depths of her gaze. The longing, the need.

  I slam into her, my plan, my control, completely gone. I can’t restrain the need to have her, to take her and make her mine like she ought to be in this moment.

  Deep inside of her, to the hilt, I watch as her neck arches, her head falling back with a wretched scream of pleasure. Her cunt spasms around my length, the warmth and heat stroking a desire that forces my balls to draw up. I could let go just like this. Gripping her hair, feeling her curves, hearing her screams and buried deep inside her as she orgasms from the forceful thrust.

  A cold sweat breaks out along my skin, every inch of it covered, trembling with the need to move. I wait, letting her adjust, refusing to give in to the baser need.

  A second passes, Laura’s body sags and that’s my cue to piston my hips. Control and desperation are at war with one another as I fuck her with complete possession. Pulling her hair back, I whisper along the crook of her neck, “You are mine,” never pausing the steady pace of my thrusts.

  The sound of it, of my hips meeting her ass, mixes with the short moans that slip out of her parted lips every time I sink inside of her.

  This. I have missed this dearly. I ravage her and nothing has given me more meaning in my life. Harder, faster; I fuck her more and more ruthlessly until Laura’s grip slips, unable to hold on. Letting go of her hair and wrapping my arm around her waist, I shove her to her knees, mine resting just on the outside of hers on the sofa cushion. I don’t miss a beat as she thrashes under me, screaming louder and with a frenzy she can’t control. Even the sound of her nails scratching against the sofa fuels me.

  She screams my name. Mine.

  “You’re mine,” I remind her. Whispering the heated truth. “You’re mine.”

  “Seth,” she begs me, but I haven’t a clue what for. She could beg for anything now, and I wouldn’t stop. I can’t. But when I’d finished, I could have promised her the world, just to keep her under me.

  “You’re mine.” The savage words are gritted between my teeth before I rake them down her slender neck. Her lips never close, her screams of pleasures and heavy breathing never pause. Her nails claw down my thigh as she reaches behind her and the hint of pain urges me to fuck her harder and faster.

  She’s lost in the pleasure, limp and sated, but on the verge of cumming yet again. Her body trembles with the need but her glazed gaze and whispered pleas prove to me she’s uncertain if she can take it.

  “Take it, Babygirl. You. Are. Mine. Take it.” I can’t stop. Not yet.

  I can’t let go. Not until she admits it.

  I won’t tell her to though. I won’t command her to acknowledge what I deserve to hear.

  With both of my hands gripping her hips to keep her upright, she takes it all. For over an hour, I refrain, letting her cum time and time again.

  I don’t let go until Laura screams out, pulsing around me, “I’m yours.”

  She’s limp on the sofa, her thighs pressed together as she turns from side to side. Her skin is a beautiful pink, her hair a messy halo. She’s a vision of beauty and nothing less. “Mmm,” she moans, biting her bottom lip as she rolls onto her side again, swaying her legs and moving her hands to rest between her thighs.

  “Did I break you, Babygirl?” I ask her.

  “Hmm,” she breathes, her blue eyes searching for mine when she finally looks up. “Seth? You ruined me long ago.”

  Her body trembles, even as she clings to me wh
en I lean down to pick her up. The evidence of her giving into me surrounds us. From the damp spot where she was just laying, to the clothes strewn around the room.

  Her cheek rests on my shoulder as I walk down the hallway, to my bedroom. “You’ll stay here tonight.” The statement seems to wake her, to make her more sober than she’s been for the last hour that I’ve had her at my mercy. Her grip slips on me, but I hold her just the same.

  With a short intake of breath and a hesitancy in her touch, I expect her to protest. She doesn’t though. She doesn’t do a damn thing when I pull my sheets back, slipping her into the large four post bed and then covering her small body.

  “Sleep.” I give her the command and her wide doe eyes stare up at me. The look in them is resistant and questioning, but she’s quiet.

  It’s not until I’m leaving the room, until my back is to her and my hand is on the doorknob to close it behind me that she speaks up.

  “Seth,” she calls out.

  “Yes?” I question her, waiting for her defiance so I can shut it down. She will stay here tonight and any other night I want. She’s mine.

  “The other notebooks… I brought the photocopies in a file box.” Her voice is clear and I debate whether or not she’ll even be able to sleep until she blinks. It’s slow, sleep longing to keep her eyes shut. When I don’t respond, I simply watch her figure, the moonlight playing with the shadows along her curves under the white comforter. My gorgeous girl. Then she adds, “It’s in my trunk.”

  “I’ll get them. Go to sleep.”

  She doesn’t agree. She doesn’t protest either. She simply watches me as I close the door, making a mental note to reward her in the morning.

  Laura

  Even though I’m not there anymore, I can’t help thinking: it’s been a long damn time since I’ve woken up in someone else’s bed. I like to leave in the middle of the night, if I bother staying after a round in the sheets with a man. I only remember staying with one of the guys I’d actually slept with in his bed till morning.

  And I never bring them back here. Never. My loft is my safe place.

  So as the hot water sprays against my skin, feeling especially brutal against my ass, I think there’s only been one other time, one other guy who I’ve laid in bed next to and slept till morning.

  I don’t even remember that poor guy’s name. It was a decent night, but I only stayed because I’d come off a long shift before the date. It was just fine. Everything about every other guy is always… just fine.

  Turning around to wash away the soap that’s lathered on my front, I open my mouth and drink some of the hot water. The steam fills the stall and I stare absently at the grayish-blue subway tile. I thought about objecting more than I thought about sleeping when Seth was there, staring at me expectantly. The moment the door closed and I closed my eyes, all I could smell was him. That woodsy, masculine scent that reminds me of home.

  Nothing reminds me of home… nothing but Seth.

  All I could smell was him; all I could feel were his hands on me, his cock inside of me. Fuck, even now as I wash myself, my hands reach lower and I swear I can still feel him pulsing inside of me.

  Even with the heat surrounding me, I shiver. Loving the way it feels, loving the memory of it.

  The moment I closed my eyes last night and let myself be consumed by the remnants of Seth, I fell deep asleep. It was dreamless, but peaceful. I haven’t slept like that in years.

  Ding-dong.

  The doorbell sounds loudly in my bathroom. The loft is small enough to hear that thing from any corner of my home.

  I’m quick to turn off the spray and dry off haphazardly before throwing on a cotton bathrobe. I’m nowhere near presentable, but I can at least peek through the peephole. As I walk, I catch a glimpse of the large clock on the wall in my living room. It’s a farmhouse design, galvanized silver and oval with barn wood behind the moving hands. It’s not even noon yet. I’ve been home for nearly two hours since Seth and I parted, him to work, whatever that might be.

  It reminds me of what else I was thinking about in the shower.

  It’s been a long damn time since I’ve slept in a man’s bed. An even longer time since I’ve woken up to an early morning lazy fuck. With the tingling sensation still ringing along my skin, I open the door for the delivery woman.

  With her hair pulled into a tight bun and a ruby red smile, she asks my name and makes me sign before handing me a long rectangular white box.

  I’m glad it’s a woman, since my robe slips open just slightly as I sign. She can’t see anything, but still.

  Kicking the door shut behind me, I wonder what’s in the box. There’s a single ribbon, satin and dark red, in the center of it. It’s easy enough to untie. There’s no note, no sender information. Only my name. Not even an address.

  At the realization, I turn back to look at my front door. Questions are ringing in my head. I’m sure she’s long gone, so instead of chasing her, I merely purse my lips and open the box.

  Long-stemmed flowers. Their soft floral scent hits my senses just as quickly as the smile on my face and warmth up my chest.

  With my bare feet padding on the floor and water still dripping from the tips of my hair, I trace the petals of the blush buttercup ranunculus and the white anemones. It’s a full bouquet and given that it’s fall, I imagine it wasn’t cheap.

  Grabbing the step stool so I can reach the top shelf, I take out my expensive vase, not the basic clear ones that are on the bottom shelf.

  I cut each stem, remembering when Seth gave me a similar bouquet. It was our first year anniversary. I think it’s the first real gift he ever got me. Technically we never gave ourselves a date. But every year, on the date of our first kiss and our first night together, Seth gave me a bouquet, and this one was the first. These flowers and these colors. Much smaller and not quite as fancy as these are, but the same flowers.

  I can’t believe he remembered. Men never remember details like this.

  I leave the vase in the center of my coffee table, and when I’m done cleaning up, I lie down on the sofa, still in my robe, and question everything I thought up until yesterday.

  What am I doing? The question nags at me. More importantly, I hear Seth’s voice in my head from only weeks ago, asking me how I thought this would end.

  Seth

  “The notebooks are mostly ramblings. But there are drawings of where Marcus took her.” The woman, Delilah, likes to sketch. I wondered how accurate they were until I drove past one of the streets she referred to. She’d drawn a park, specifically Lincoln Park. It was the first place she’d met Marcus according to the notebooks. It’s the place that started it all. It was like she’d taken a photograph. It was that detailed and that accurate.

  “Drawings?” Jase questions from where he sits behind his desk. Declan’s occupying the chair next to mine, on the opposite side of the desk. I answer, although Declan knows just as well as I do.

  “Some in New York, where she’s from, but she came down here years ago for a case and that’s apparently where she met Marcus. She drew the locations.”

  “Maybe it’s something she did back when she was a lawyer?” Jase surmises.

  “More like she learned it from a cop,” Declan speaks up and steals our attention. “I’ve been going through Walsh’s computer. He’s uploaded his old cases and in his files, he drew the sites. Quick sketches.”

  “Maybe she learned it from him? She was a lawyer, right? Did they work a case together?” This is the first time Declan’s telling me this.

  “Could be,” he says then shrugs and sits back in his seat. The leather groans and with the turn of the clouds, Jase’s office darkens. He has to get up to turn on the lights as the day shifts to night behind the large window to the back of him.

  “She was with Walsh and Marcus. She has information on both of them. She met Walsh first.”

  Sitting forward, I nod as I clasp my hands in my lap. My thumb runs along my knuckles as I tell hi
m, “There’s a lot in these notebooks that could be useful if the information is still accurate. Like how Walsh used PO Boxes to communicate with informants. He used them to send her letters too. It’s a safe place for an information exchange. Or at least he considers it to be since they’re purchased and paid for by an LLC that’s run through the Cayman Islands.”

  “Our surveillance shows he’s still using them,” Declan adds.

  “Good, let’s see who he’s still talking to and if there’s something sensitive we can use to our advantage.”

  It shouldn’t surprise me that the information Laura gave us is already paying off.

  “Do you think he’s still seeing her?” Jase asks and I look to my right, waiting for Declan to speak up. I gave him the latter half and the first one I’d already read, and I took the earlier portion. “Declan has the most recent entries of her diaries.”

  “It appears she still occasionally has contact with him and she’s made it clear she isn’t over him. What they went through, it certainly changed her career path and mental state.”

  “An up-and-coming lawyer, to an in-and-out resident at a mental institution… I’d say so.”

  “Anything in there about Walsh?” Jase questions.

  I thumb through the pile of papers in front of me as I shake my head. “Not anything after the first year of entries. She hasn’t written anything about him recently.”

  “It’s possible that she may not know Walsh is looking for her?” Jase says and I can feel the steady tapping of the heel of his foot under the desk. His ass is riding on this just as much as mine is.

  “Is he?” Declan asks.

  “He mentioned her at the very least. So she’s on his mind.”

  “As far as we know,” Declan answers, “he hasn’t contacted her.”

  I add in my thoughts. “It’s odd that he hasn’t. He’s obviously not over what happened years ago and it involves her. She was a key piece in whatever happened in New York that led to him leaving the FBI.”