He nuzzles his nose gently in the space between my thigh and sex, inhaling deeply. It sends a rash of tingles up my spine. My heartbeat goes jagged. I get small bites all along the insides of my thighs, tender bites, like he’s testing my flesh, tasting it. Every so often, a soft swipe of his tongue chases away a sting where his nip was a little too strong.
He kisses me between my legs again, reaching up to squeeze my aching breasts, and I moan, unable to keep it in.
“God, I love that sound,” he breathes, and slides his tongue deep inside me at the same time he pinches my hard nipples, rolling his thumbs over the rigid peaks.
Heat erupts along all my nerve endings. I close my eyes and rock my hips, wanting to get closer, needing his mouth all over me, inside me, everywhere at once. I feel like I’m starving, like I’ll break apart if he doesn’t get inside me soon, and I tell him in a breathless whisper that I need to feel him, now.
“Oh, she thinks she’s in charge.” He chuckles. “How sweet.”
He continues to flick his thumb over my nipple as he draws the other hand down my body, spreading it open under my ass and using it to lift me closer to his face. Then he suckles me slowly, his tongue wet and hot, his lips making suction while the rough pad of his thumb strokes my outer lips.
“Please,” I whisper, writhing against this mouth, the pressure building. “God. Please.”
“Tell me how it feels,” he says harshly. The tremor in his voice tells me he’s getting closer to losing his control—and knowing it’s all because of me, because of how I’m reacting to him and what he’s doing to me—makes it so much hotter.
“So good,” I whisper. “So amazing. It feels…it feels like I’m yours.”
His groan sends a vibration through my core that feels so incredible that I jerk. His tongue laps faster against my clit. His thumb slides inside me, but it’s not enough.
“Please,” I beg again, a pulse of pleasure throbbing between my legs.
“Don’t come yet, baby. Just feel this. Just breathe.”
His whispered command makes me shudder. His voice is so soft yet so hard, so confident, so fucking sexy I can’t help but rock faster against his mouth, cupping my breasts so I can pinch my nipples while his hands dig into my hips, trying to hold me in place.
“Look at you all swollen for me,” he says softly, then slides his tongue up and down my cleft, flat, lapping, until he gets back up top and he does a swirling thing that makes me groan and shudder. “Fuck,” he whispers. “I love how you respond to me, Angel.”
He can’t wait anymore. He rises up, drags his shirt over his head, rips open the fly of his jeans, then takes his erection in his fist. “Need your mouth, sweetheart,” he rasps.
I sit up, scoot closer to him, wrap my hand around the thick base of his cock, and slide the head between my lips.
His soft moan is my reward.
I stroke his shaft as I get the head of his cock wet all over, then take it deeper into my mouth, sucking, feeling him tight and hot against my tongue. He hisses in a breath, digging his hands into my hair, and flexes his hips, looking down at me as I suck him deeper into my mouth.
He gasps when I take him all the way to the base.
When I circle my other hand around his balls, he shudders. I start a rhythm, achingly slow, a drag and pull with my mouth that allows me to feel every ridge and vein, to savor his heat and taste, to listen as his moans grow louder and more broken.
“Not yet,” he pants. “I want to come in your mouth, but not…oh fuck.”
I’m circling my tongue around and around his engorged head. He’s watching me, eyes half-shut, mouth open, hair falling into his eyes as his chest heaves with every breath. His hands on either side of my head are shaking.
Then suddenly I’m on my back again. He hovers over me, big and powerful, a mountain of a man, his half-lidded eyes filled with lust and possession. “Spread your legs,” he orders softly, “and fuck that sweet pussy on my cock.”
I obey him, reaching down for his erection, finding it and sliding it back and forth between my legs until it’s slick. He holds himself still above me, arms braced and every muscle flexed as I guide the head of his cock inside me, canting my hips to get the angle right.
“Slow,” he warns as I immediately start to buck against it. I drop my head against the mattress, drag a ragged breath into my lungs, and very slowly flex my hips so he eases inside me, inch by beautiful, hard inch, until he’s fully sheathed.
“You’ve still got your jeans on,” I say breathlessly.
He answers in a voice like gravel. “I’ll take ’em off in a minute. Need you like this first. Now rock against that cock, baby, and kiss me.”
I pull his head down and kiss him deeply, my thighs trembling on either side of his hips, my heartbeat like thunder. Then, very slowly, I start to move my hips in a circular motion. It feels so good I clutch the hard globes of his ass and grind against him, rubbing my sensitive clit against his pelvis while keeping the entire throbbing length of him inside.
“Oh God, this is my new favorite thing,” I pant. “You’re so hard. God, you’re rock-hard for me.”
“Let it build. Don’t rush it. Just feel me. Feel how good we are together.”
He lowers his head and sucks on my nipple. I arch into his mouth, gasping, wanting to laugh and cry and scream all at the same time, every emotion pummeling me so I have to fight for breath.
“My beautiful Angel,” Ryan murmurs against my skin, moving his mouth to my other breast and sucking it, his soft hair tickling my skin. His voice drops to a whisper. “You have my heart. You know you have my heart.”
I swallow a sob.
He lowers his chest to mine so his whole body is pressed against me. Then he inhales against my neck, makes a deep sound of pleasure, and flexes his hips. “C’mon, baby,” he gently prompts when I fall still. “That’s your cock. Fuck it.”
I close my eyes and run my hands up his muscular arms, loving the strength I feel in them. Then I exhale the breath I’ve been holding and roll my hips.
Ryan growls in pleasure, so I do it again. And again. And again.
He’s hot and heavy and hard against me. His whole body is hard and masculine, and I love it so much, I can’t help but paw him like a greedy little hungry animal. I turn my head to his arm and sink my teeth into the muscle as I listen to him pant and softly groan. I’m so wet, I hear the sounds it makes as I grind against him, but I don’t care. I’m past rational thought. I’m nearly delirious.
He takes over and starts to pump into me, deep and slow, his mouth on my neck. My nipples drag against his chest with every move, sending shock waves of pleasure throughout my body as a coil of pressure winds tight deep inside me, tighter and tighter with every stroke of his cock.
“I’m close,” I breathe, shaking with the need for release.
“Hold on, baby. Draw it out. It’ll be so much more intense if you can hold on.”
He keeps pumping, flexing his hips in that agonizingly slow, steady rhythm, his breath hot at my ear. When I cry out, almost tipping over the edge, he falls still and peppers sweet, gentle kisses all over my neck and shoulder.
I pull his hair, wanting to scream, wanting to come but also wanting to hold on, gulping big breaths and shaking uncontrollably beneath him.
“Oh, fuck you’re right there,” he whispers when I clench around him. He raises his head and stares into my eyes. There’s a moment, a long, bottomless moment, where we simply gaze at each other, our hearts in our eyes, everything laid bare between us.
Then he exhales and thrusts into me, and I’m over the edge.
My body bows as my orgasm slams into me, stiffening my muscles and stealing the breath from my lips. I cry out, mindless, thrashing, going crazy underneath him as he drives into me again and again, grunting through his pleasure, watching me come through slitted eyes.
Ryan Ryan Ryan.
I’m screaming his name—or sobbing it—I don’t know, and I don’t care.
I’m past caring about anything but him, but this, this whirlwind of thunder and lightning, of howling gales and scalding rain. This could be heaven or it could be hell, and when I realize it doesn’t matter as long as he’s with me, it finally shatters what’s left of the wall around my heart.
It all crumbles away. All my doubt. All my fear. All my stupid excuses.
I do belong to this man, no matter how much I might try to deny it, no matter how much my rational mind might scoff. No matter how crazy it is. How impossible.
I’m his.
Then he’s laughing. Loudly, with his head thrown back, a wild, crazy laugh like he just broke out of prison.
“Yes, you are,” he says, still laughing, which is when I realize I’ve said it aloud.
He rolls flat onto his back, taking me with him in a smooth motion, made simple by the strength of his arms. My hair cascades around my shoulders and breasts as I stare down at him with heavy lids in a fog of sheer pleasure, feeling him so deep and hard inside me. I’m still throbbing around him, and my body is still pulsing inside, so I follow the beat of the pulse and rock against his cock, throwing my head back and closing my eyes.
His hands grip my hips. He thrusts up into me, his breath harsh and guttural.
“Look at you, oh fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful, Jesus, Jesus—” He cuts off with a groan, his body bowing up into mine. “Fuck! I’m gonna come! Fuck, Angel, your mouth, gimme your mouth—”
He breaks off with another groan, this one desperate.
I manage to clamber down and get him into my mouth just as he starts to come, spilling hotly onto my tongue. He’s shouting, his head pitched back onto the pillow, all the muscles in his abdomen and arms standing out.
I swallow. He gives me more. He’s twisting in the blankets, pulling my hair, out of control, grunting like an animal as he pumps against my mouth. I love every second of it, his taste, his total abandon, everything.
He comes like he does everything else, 1,000 percent committed. Crying out until he’s hoarse, praising me, making me feel beautiful, like fairy tales could be true and happily ever afters might be an actual possibility. When it’s over and he’s spent, lying motionless and panting, his chest slick with sweat, I sit back on my heels and just look at him. I drink him in with my eyes, memorizing every golden line of his body.
Because in some dark part of my heart, no matter how much I want to believe in them, I know that fairy tales aren’t true.
He cracks an eye open and peers at me. “Oh no. I see smoke. You’re thinking.”
“No, I’m admiring the picture I’ve made.”
“What picture is that?”
“The picture of a big, strong man wrung out and helpless against me.”
“Well,” he says, his voice husky, “not totally helpless.” His cock, still erect, twitches against his belly. When I laugh, he holds out his arms. “Get up here.”
I crawl up and fit myself against him, snuggling under his arm and throwing my leg over his. He kisses my forehead, one arm tightening around me in a possessive embrace. The other hand trails up my arm, raising gooseflesh in its wake. I rest my head against his chest, listen to the steady thump of his heart, and close my eyes.
“Tell me a story, Mariana,” he whispers, lips moving against my forehead.
“A story? What kind of story?”
“A story about a little girl who lived in the hills and ate dirt to survive,” he says with infinite gentleness. “The story of you.”
I turn my face to his neck. He squeezes me tighter when he feels the tremor run through me. Then, when I’ve gathered the courage and decided where to start, I take a deep breath and begin.
Twenty-Five
Mariana
“Once upon a time, there was a shy little girl named Mariana. She was born in Colombia, in a small village called Chengue, in the Sucre province, a northern coastal mountain range near the Caribbean Sea. Most people there were cattle farmers, but Mariana’s parents farmed avocadoes. No matter what they farmed, however, the people of that region were poor. Peasants. The little girl didn’t understand that until many years later. She thought the wild hills she roamed with her scruffy yellow dog were paradise.”
I pause to draw a breath, wondering if Ryan knew it would be easier to tell this as if it happened to someone else—just a girl in a story, not me.
I decide he probably did.
“Colombia was—and is—a country of great beauty, but also great violence. It’s been embroiled in civil war for more than fifty years. People think coffee and drugs are the main fuel of its economy, and they are, but there are also kidnappings for profit, assassins for hire, and death squads that roam the countryside, paid by the government to quell any rebellion.
“Misery is big business there. Death is an accepted part of life. But all was well in tiny Chengue. Mariana and her older sister, Nina, helped her parents on the farm, and they went to school in the village and led a normal, happy life.”
Beneath my cheek, Ryan’s heart beats faster. He instinctively knows what’s coming before it even leaves my lips.
“Until one night, the paramilitary came before dawn and started pulling people from their homes.”
I close my eyes and listen to the beat of Ryan’s heart, the ache of devastation burning through me even after all these years.
“The soldiers took everyone to the center of the village. There was so much screaming, so much confusion, so many shiny black pools of blood. A few, including Mariana and her sister, escaped to the hills. They couldn’t escape the screams, though. They lasted all through the night, horrible screams and gunfire and shouting that echoed up into the hills like the voices of angry ghosts.
“When it was over, the paramilitary set fire to everything. Mariana and her sister huddled together high up in the branches of a tree they’d climbed, and watched the only home they’d ever known burn to the ground.”
“I know this story,” Ryan says in a low, raw voice. “I’ve heard of Chengue. It was alleged that the Colombian government assisted the FARC guerillas with the killings.”
“Alleged, but never proven. Not that it matters either way. When dawn rose over the village, both Mariana’s parents and nearly everyone else she’d ever known were dead. The avocado fields were smoking and black. The cattle had been slaughtered. Her beloved yellow dog lay still in the dirt, missing half his head.
“Mariana was six at this time. Her sister, Nina, was ten. For the next four years, they hid in the hills with a few other children, living like scavengers, little nocturnal animals stealing what they could from nearby villages to survive. They hid from the guerillas who swept through every so often, starving and filthy and forgotten by the rest of the world.”
“Jesus,” Ryan says, his voice choked.
I smile sadly. “No. He never showed his face in Chengue. He forgot about them, too.”
Ryan rolls us to our sides, pulls me up against him so my back is nestled against his chest, and draws his knees up behind mine. He pulls me tight to his body, his arm an iron band around my waist, and buries his face in my hair.
“One day,” I continue, my voice sounding very faraway to my own ears, “the guerillas finally caught the children. They were so weak by then. Just skin and bones, their eyes huge and sunken in their lice-ridden heads. The few boys in the group were quickly killed. Their necks were so brittle, so easily snapped. But the girls…well. Unfortunately, the girls were pretty. That’s what they said, anyway, the men who dragged them kicking and screaming from their hiding places. They said words like pretty and money and pure, and although the girls didn’t know what they meant, they knew enough to be terrified.
“And so they were sold to a trafficker named Beatriz, a woman with gold teeth and no soul, who took off their clothes and inspected them to see if they’d ever been had by a man.”
Behind me, Ryan’s breathing is uneven. His body is shaking in reaction to my words, when strangely I feel more and more calm as I continue to
speak, as if I’m releasing poison from my veins.
“The girls were taken to the port. They were loaded with other girls from other villages into a shipping container. There were no lights. There was no food. Each girl was chained to the wall, a collar around her throat, steel cuffs around her ankles and wrists, one gallon of drinking water in a plastic bottle by her side. They sat in the darkness for days that were like decades, listening to each other’s pitiful cries and retching from seasickness, until one by one they fell silent and there were only a few more whimpering voices left.
“By the time the rocking stopped and the doors creaked open, none of them were making any sounds at all. Mute and wretched, they lifted their eyes to the light.”
I have to stop. My throat has closed in on itself as it did when that container door creaked open and I caught my first glimpse of Reynard’s horrified face.
I was nothing by then. I wasn’t even human. I was an animal. The only instinct I had left was primal rage.
As if it’s a movie projected directly onto my mind’s eye, I see Reynard press a handkerchief to his nose. He staggers back several feet, overcome by the stench of human waste and rotting corpses.
“I was the last one taken out of the container. I couldn’t walk, so they dragged me out by one arm. They dropped me at Reynard’s feet. I lay in the dirt while they corralled the other girls into a bus that was waiting to take us to Capo’s. I thought I would die. I didn’t care. Even the sound of my sister crying my name didn’t move me. Then Reynard knelt down and brushed the hair off my face. When I looked up at him, I saw tears on his cheeks.”
I realize I’ve reverted to first person when I feel tears on my cheeks, too. I don’t bother to wipe them away. It’s almost the end of the story.
“The last time I saw my sister was through a dirty window of a yellow bus. She had blood running from her nose. Her hands were pressed to the glass, and I could tell she was screaming, but for some reason, I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t hear anything. Then the bus drove away, and Reynard picked me up in his arms.
Wicked Intentions: The Wicked Games Series, Book 3 Page 22