I felt my muscles strain against his girth, opening wider even as they gripped him, contracting and sucking him deeper. He moaned and faltered then, bowing his head till his forehead rested against mine, pulling me closer still. I tilted my head, lifting my eyes to his face, and found his expression transformed by passion. His mouth was slack, his lips bruised and wet from my kisses. His cheekbones seemed sharper, his brows a knitted slash over eyes that were hooded and dark with need.
“Look,” he whispered, glancing up at me, his voice strained. “God, just look at you.”
I looked down, my eyes following his and saw our bodies, a double arch joined at the root, Thomas’ cock plunging in and out of my cunt with strokes so deep and slow, that each connection sent a new wave of convulsions through my limbs. The sight of him, of us, thrust together and apart again, over and over, drowned my senses and for a moment I thought I’d faint at the feel of him, stretching me, claiming my body from the inside out.
“Thomas,” I cried out as my arousal pitched. I was shaking in earnest now and lost my grip on my legs. His hands swept in to replace mine and he lifted my thighs, hooking his elbows under each of my knees.
“Put your arms around my neck, and hang on.”
I hung off of his shoulders, my fingers braided behind his neck, as he lifted me from the marble countertop, my body perched on his arms. His hands gripped my hips firmly, supporting my full weight, when he stepped back from the counter and walked with me to the far end of the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” I asked, still trembling in his arms, but less so now that he held me steadfast against him.
“Trust me,” he said. Dipping his head to press his lips to mine, he swept in for a deep kiss before pulling back. He turned so that our bodies were parallel to the large bank of windows in the kitchen, and nodded at them. “Look. Look at us.”
I looked at the windows, puzzled at first when I saw only blackness, rain and the soft glimmer of the night sky through the panes. But then he lifted me, his length sliding free, and I saw the movement in the glass. My focus shifted and I realized I could see us, the reflection of our bodies clearly outlined in the window. I gaped at the image. He was so tall, so strong and large, holding my body, folded tightly against his, my legs splayed, my pussy poised just above his cock as it reached for me. I hugged him to me, my cheek pressing against his shoulder, watching in the reflection as he lowered me slowly onto his cock.
“Oh fuck.” He groaned as he entered me and I echoed the sound. The angle was so steep, the penetration so complete, that I felt impaled, deliciously stretched and open to him, even as my muscles clamped down around his cock. He lifted me, withdrawing almost completely, before lowering me again, his eyes finding mine, searching, trying to gauge how fast he should go, how hard he should drive me.
“God, yes.” I answered the question he hadn’t voiced. “Please, just fuck me.”
He captured my mouth then, and slammed me down onto his cock, lifting faster and stabbing deeper, harder, his hips slapping against my ass in a steady, punishing rhythm. All the while we watched ourselves in the window, the sound of the rain outside muffling under the sharp wet slap of skin on skin, the heavy panting of labored breath, and the low keening moan of ecstasy that escaped my lips each time he drove his cock home.
My orgasm crashed over me without warning, and I bucked in his arms, clawing at his shoulders as I came hard around him. I cried out when I felt him join me, felt his cock erupting inside me, filling me with his release. He guided my legs around his hips, and I locked my ankles together as his arms slipped over sweaty skin to clasp me to him. His kiss ravaged my mouth, his lips taking every last tremble from mine, until my body stilled and we stood together still connected, in the candlelight. He stroked my hair and soothed my shaking with sweet murmurs and gentle kisses.
“Sweet Jane,” he said, smiling against my lips before resting his forehead to mine. “That was a spectacular dessert.”
And with that, the walls buzzed and popped. The power had gone out again. “Oh no.” I laughed and buried my head in his neck.
“Bloody hell.”
* * *
The power came back on again in the middle of the night. I knew this because the lamp on the bedside table flicked on, waking me. I sat up and reached for the lamp pull, turning it off quickly before it could wake Thomas as well. He’d carried me from the kitchen to the bedroom hours earlier, candelabra in his hand, my tablecloth shift trailing on the floor as he walked. He looked like a gothic hero carrying a swooning damsel off to a shadowy lair. We’d showered together in the dark, laughing as we bumped noses and soaped our soft bits. Soft bits that swelled and flushed in each other’s hands, and had Thomas lifting me again, taking me once more, tenderly this time as the water pounded on my back. We fell into bed together, naked and exhausted. He drew me to him, enveloping my body with his. We slept, limbs entwined, connected.
I felt the loss of that connection now. Shivering in the cold night air, I turned towards him, hoping I might crawl back into his arms without waking him.
But he was gone. The bed was empty and I was alone.
I rose to my knees, pulling the satin sheets around my body, and as my eyes adjusted to the light I could see the sheer white curtains that lined the four poster bed were drifting softly. There was a breeze. I moved to the edge of the bed and pulled the curtains back. The sliding glass doors at the far end of the room were open just a crack, just enough to chill the air, just enough that I could hear the sound of the rainstorm as it beat down on the wood of the balcony on the other side of the glass. I rose from the bed, pushing curtains out of my way as I walked towards the doors, then stopped when a figure came into view. Thomas stood on the balcony, his back to me, a pair of jeans clinging to his legs, the fabric of his T-shirt transparent in the rain. His head was bowed, and his hands gripped the balcony’s railing with such force that his shoulders were shaking. I rushed forward, concerned that he was hurt, but as I drew closer I could hear him, faintly, between the swells of the storm. He was crying.
2
My heart lurched, and my hands flew to the door, sliding it back even as my head cautioned me against intruding. The door glided open and thumped against the frame. Thomas jolted upright, wiped his hands over his face and turned around.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said, clearing his throat and running a hand through his wet hair. His smile was grim and forced, a too-casual attempt at cheerfulness.
“Hello,” I whispered, looking up at him, shielding my face with one hand as the rain whipped through the open door and stung my skin.
It was too late to turn back now, to pretend I hadn’t seen him, hadn’t witnessed his pain. The only way out, was through. So I spoke again.
“If you’d like to talk, I’ll listen.”
He blinked and shuddered, as if my words had punched the air in the space between us.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he said, and taking a step towards me, extended an arm, ready to usher me inside. “You’re getting wet, let’s get you back in bed.”
“I cry in the shower,” I said, ducking around him, and out onto the balcony, into the rain.
“What?” He turned to me, his lips set in a thin line, a muscle tensing in his jaw.
Tread carefully, my head reminded my mouth. But it needn’t have bothered. My heart was in control now, and it was bleeding for him.
“When I need to cry, I do it in the shower.” I pulled the sheet tighter around my body and moved to the railing, my back to him, and looked out over the water. The sea was choppy. Great foaming waves writhed on the beach far below us, its surface pebbled by the rain. “It’s hard for me to cry. And sometimes you just need to, ya know? So I cry in the shower. In there I can’t hear myself, can’t see myself, and there’s a good reason for water to be running down my face.” I laughed softly. My thinking was that if he wasn’t ready to talk, that maybe I could still help him by sharing a little of myself. Maybe that would open hi
m up.
He didn’t say a word.
“I imagine it’s the same in a rain like this,” I said, wondering if I should continue. Were my words helping or harming? Should I just leave? No, I thought. Give it just a little longer. “I should try it,” I said. “It’s probably better in the rain. With the storm raging, thunder shouting, and great fat drops of water falling on your chest, it’s almost like the sky is crying with you. Maybe, if I cried in the rain, I wouldn’t feel like I was alone.”
His hand covered mine on the railing, his body a granite wall against my back. He curled his free arm around me and pulled me to him, his lips brushing softly over my ear.
“You astonish me,” he whispered. “I adore you.”
My heart fluttered at his words. I twisted in his arms, looking up at him, and when his gaze locked with mine I could see he was as consumed by this moment as I was. His eyes were red rimmed and raw, his pupils great black pools so fathomless and restless, they seemed to surge and break with the waves below us. I didn’t speak, only lifted my fingers to stay the tremble in his lips. He kissed the tips, his eyes boring into mine. I was lost in him, falling. If I stared long enough I knew I’d fall apart, so I closed my eyes and pressed my face into his shirt, cold and wet and stretched thinly over his hard chest.
“I…I’m here,” I stammered. “If you need me.”
“Thank you,” he said. Taking me by the hand, he led me back into the bedroom, closing the door behind us so that the sounds of rain and wind were shut out, and we were blanketed in an awkward silence.
“Oh, the power’s back on,” he said, leading us towards the light that streamed from the bathroom door.
“Yeah, um…” I followed, my hand still in his. “It came back on a little bit ago. That’s what woke me.”
“Come here.” He settled me in front of him and began peeling the sopping bed sheet from me. “Let’s get you warm.”
I let him unwrap me, then stepped forward into the thick downy robe he retrieved from a hook on the wall. He attended to my comfort. He tied the belt around my waist, brushed my hair back from my shoulders, and rubbed my arms vigorously, all the while his eyes carefully avoiding mine.
“Now, to bed, darling. I’ll join in a moment. I just want to hang the wet things up to dry,” he said, kissing me on the nose. He turned me gently towards the door with a nudge.
I left him to it, understanding that he was rattled, and in need of a moment to compose himself. So was I.
Snuggling into the bed, I rested my head against the pillow, listening to the distant sounds of the now quieting storm. After about thirty minutes, the light went out in the bathroom, and without its ambiance the bedroom was almost pitch dark. I felt the bed shift as he sat down. He slid under the bedcovers and reached for me, unfastening the belt to my robe, pushing it off my body as he gathered me to him, naked and warm. We held each other, my head resting on his chest. I felt him breathe in deeply and exhale slowly. His heart was beating rapidly under my cheek and he held me a little tighter, lifting a hand to stroke my hair. I nuzzled into him and sighed. Then he spoke.
“You’re right, you know. I was crying. Although I tend not to think of it that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “I just don’t think of it as crying. It’s more like a purging.”
“Okay,” I whispered, and bit my lip, wondering if he would keep talking on his own or if I should say something more.
“I had a nightmare,” he said. “It’s the same one I’ve had many times, for years. Although this was the first in about eight months.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “My nightmares, unfortunately, are based on a reality.”
My fingers curled against his chest, stroking softly, hoping he’d continue, afraid that he would.
“About a decade ago, I took a trip to Turkey on behalf of my family’s business. My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps and, while I was attending University at the time, I was conflicted. I’d never pleased him, and I craved his approval, so I was willing to make this effort towards making him happy. My grandfather—we’re very close. He was against it. He didn’t think that the company should be moving any more of our manufacturing overseas and he felt that my father was bullying me. He was right. But I went anyway. I evaluated the factories, met with their representatives, and inspected their goods and practices. I did everything my father asked, perfectly. When we spoke on the phone he sounded almost proud, and I remember how excited I was to get home and see his face, to have him pat me on the back and acknowledge that I had done something right.” He cleared his throat. “The day before my flight home,” he said, his arms tightening around me as if he were bracing himself, both of us, for something, “I was taken.”
He stopped speaking, and inhaled so sharply that I lifted a hand to his cheek in concern. He leaned against it, turning his face to kiss my palm, before taking my hand in his own and pressing it to his chest.
“Taken?” I asked quietly.
“Abducted,” he answered, his tone measured and stark. “By four men in masks with very large guns. They shot my driver, overwhelmed my security, put a hood on my head, and left me, in a concrete room, handcuffed to a pipe.”
“Oh my god,” I said, tears welling in my eyes. I pressed a kiss to his hand.
“I was abused, beaten and nearly starved, for three months.”
Tears streamed down my face, and I kissed his hand again, stroking his arm, my fingers tracing the black band at his wrist before I realized what I was doing. Suddenly I had an idea as to its significance; alarmed, I started to move my hand away.
“No, it’s okay,” he said, stopping me. “You’ve guessed right. That was my first tattoo. The same skin that was marred because of that brutality.”
“Why? Why would you make that permanent?”
“Because it is. I got away, I escaped, I lived. But that event, that horrific event, has been the single most important influence on my life so far. For better and for worse.”
“But—” I began.
“That scar,” he said, emotion returning to his voice, “is a badge, hard won.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The handcuffs were old and I realized after a few days that if I worked at them long enough, hard enough, eventually they’d break. They did, finally; the links broke apart after months of work. I bloodied my wrist in the process, tore the skin badly and repeatedly, and hence I bear a scar on that wrist, under that tattoo”
“My god. I can’t imagine…how did you—”
“There’s far more to daring an escape than just the clever destruction of a set of handcuffs.” He laughed cynically. “But forgive me, I don’t wish to share that now. It’s a story for another stormy night.”
“No, of course,” I said. “I’m honored you chose to share what you have.”
“You deserved an explanation.”
I nodded against his chest, acknowledging his words, although I wasn’t sure I agreed. He didn’t owe me anything. His pain was his to keep or to share, that he chose to share it, touched me.
“No one came to save you,” I said, thinking about it, realizing how alone he’d been.
“No. When I returned to England they told me there had been confusion as to what had happened. They didn’t know at first if anyone had taken me, let alone who. Eventually they received a ransom demand, and were in the process of trying to comply and arrange for my release, when the British Embassy in Ankara called to tell them I was free.”
“They must have been so relieved. So happy. Your family.”
“Yes,” he said, but I felt his body stiffen under my hands. “I flew home, to them, and tried to pick up my life where I’d left off.”
“How is that even possible, after something so awful?”
He drew my hand to his lips and brushed a soft kiss over my knuckles, then draping my arm around his neck, he
sighed heavily.
“It’s very difficult. It felt nearly impossible for a long time. But I…I just did everything you’re supposed to do. I went to therapy and—”
“And you marked yourself.”
“Yes. My family has never come out publicly about the event. Very few people know that anything happened. Hardly anyone knows the whole story. My father insisted on secrecy. He felt that should it come out, it would cause controversy for the family and the company. So we kept it quiet. As a consequence I had this red, angry scar that I couldn’t explain. My other injuries healed, but that scar, it was never going to go away. I wore a watch over it for a long while. And then one day I decided on the tattoo.”
“And that helped,” I said, more a statement than a question. “The tattoo, you don’t have to hide it, you can wear it openly.”
“Yes,” he said, and his voice sounded lighter, grateful. “Exactly. It was transformative. I gave me a sense of finality and power over the event that I hadn’t been able to find before then.”
“But you have now?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad,” I said. “What about your other tattoos? Will you tell me about those?”
“Those,” he said with a sigh “are sort of dual purpose. For one thing, they are to make the one at my wrist less conspicuous, and for another, they also mark significant events in my life.”
“Like what?”
He shifted me off of him and sat up, cross legged, facing me. Holding his arm aloft, he traced a finger over its length as he spoke.
Storms and Dreams (Becoming Jane Book 3) Page 2