Light

by Angel Payne

  What could possibly go wrong?

  Plenty.

  Plenty.

  Plenty.

  Chapter Two

  Emma

  In terms of everything Reece and I have faced together, the leftover strain from our morning tiff is nothing more than a semicolon in the narrative. Which is why I’m tempted to check myself into therapy for continuing to obsess over it. Yes, on New Year’s Eve. Yes, in the crazy-ass sequined dress into which I’ve just changed for the Makras’ party tonight. Go big or go home, right? And since home isn’t an option right now, I’m diving all-in for big. Besides, I can definitely say this will be the first—and only—time I’ll attend a Newport Beach society party clad in a gold-sequined maternity tent—errrr, dress.

  Okay, so technically, I’m not really the one in the dress. Thank you, Sophie Sarsgard, alter-ego extraordinaire, for saving a little of my real-life dignity. So there are some upsides to the whole “total incognito” game besides not fearing for mine or my baby’s life every other minute. And now that my sister has decided the “Sophie the nerd” look can withstand a few stylish choices between the hideous jumpers and mom-to-be jeans, I’m not as testy about having to appear in the knocked-up-Solid-Gold-dancer look for a few hours either.

  But the thing I am still testy about?

  How my husband let things stand between us this morning.

  Not real walls, though they might as well have been. Walls I thought we’d already toppled between other things like kidnappings, explosions, family betrayals, friends dying, the destruction of half our city, and a “little” thing like my surprise pregnancy. Through it all, we always pushed our way back to each other. Forged a new path with each other. Leaned on and cried with and loved each other, at last arriving at the truth that we couldn’t do it without each other. No noble heroics. No it’s-for-the-best secrets.

  No “it was nothing” nightmares.

  A nothing that’s been gnawing at me all day.

  No. That’s been eating away at me for three days. The seventy-two full hours in which my life partner has been slowly, subtly veiling himself from me. Oh, not all of it—but just enough, tucking back a little more each day, that I haven’t noticed just how murky our connection has become until now.

  And people think veils are only good devices for women.

  Though as soon as Reece reenters the bedroom, fresh from his shower, it’s not his “veils” that spike my disquiet.

  It’s his damn bath towel.

  And the way he’s cinched it so low on his beautifully muscled hips, his “happy V” is dangerously close to being an erotic exclamation point.

  And the way I wish I could take full advantage of that observation—not to mention the bulging flesh below that declares his thoughts on the matter—but we have to stop dancing around his tricky secrecy. For the last three days, we’ve been handling his evasion with humor and sex. While both factors have been very nice, they’re still exactly what I’ve just called them. Evasions.

  “Hey, beautiful.” His interjection is music on the air, a harmony of sensuality and practicality that directly impacts my body’s happy V. Just like that, I’m even “happier” down there—a state I fight with every synapse in my brain and force of my composure. “If you like what you see, I think I can talk the manager into letting you have a test drive.”

  Dear God. He’s not making this easy. But after a self-reprimand of a terse head shake, I retort, “We’re practically late for the party as it is.”

  Reece turns, hands braced at the top points of his V, a smirk already dancing across his formidable lips. “And that’s a problem…why?”

  I plop down on the seat at the lighted vanity. “Because the event is honoring our charity, remember?”

  “And we’ll be the only ones there who really know it.”

  “And that’s a problem…why?” The retaliation is harsher than I intended, but maybe that’s not a shitty thing. Reece drops his hands and jumps his brows, bringing a surge of satisfaction for me. No, that’s not it. I’m not gratified; I’m grateful. For the first time in three days, we’re cutting through our congenial surfaces and digging to what we really mean here. What we truly need to say. “RRO isn’t something we simply started for the optics, remember?”

  Reece draws in air through his nostrils. “Of course I remember.”

  He’s peeved and it’s obvious. Good. Damn good. I want his truth; not the I-am-Bolt-hear-me-roar PR kit. “Then let’s enjoy the chance to support our team and their efforts without having to do it from a stage with a thousand flashbulbs popping in our face.”

  The sincerity I expect from him, in response to my own, doesn’t manifest. My husband continues to stand there, still looking like he’s going to be Mr. January for the “Hot Billionaires in the Shower” calendar, but also like he’s not one damn bit comfortable with it.

  Or any other word I’ve just said.

  “What?” I finally prompt. “You saying you miss the stage and the flashbulbs?”

  He folds his arms. Mentally, I slot him into the calendar as Mr. February—because the fewer days I have to share those burnished pecs, those rugged forearms, and that low towel line with the rest of the world, the better. “I’m saying that I’m not sure this will be the simple flight beneath the radar we want it to be.”

  “Huh?” He’s thrown out the statement so casually, I wipe my hands on my thighs just for a break to reprocess. “Wh-What the hell are you saying? Have you noticed anything? Did someone recognize you up at the cupcake place this morning?” Because despite the man’s field practice with his veils, he took time out of his morning run to grab me a pistachio special with cream cheese frosting while returning from his jog. “Or has the team learned something? Heard something?” I charge to my feet, ignoring Bean’s protest as my heartrate triples. “Has Faline finally figured it all out?” I raise both hands. “Baby, I swear that when I FaceTimed with Mom last week, I had the blond wig secured and that beanie on tight. And she saw nothing lower than my shoulders—”

  “Sssshhh.” He steps over and gathers me close, his clutch as forceful as his admonition. “You’re fine; you did nothing wrong. And I know that it’s tearing you up, keeping Bean a secret from her.”

  “Not as much as it would if Faline learned about him.” As soon as I utter it into his chest, which tightens from the texture of a brick wall into a titanium shield, comprehension slams me. “Holy shit.” I pull back far enough to get a full stare at his face—and the fresh tension through his jaw. “That’s what’s been haunting you too,” I assert. “In your dreams.” As soon as he averts his gaze, I wrap my hands around the back of his head. “Oh, baby. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “Because it would have helped you how?” he counters.

  “Because I’m your wife, damn it, and that’s what I’m here for.”

  “To babysit my wussy nightmares?” It’s obvious he doesn’t want a response to that, so I abstain as he pulls away. He keeps his head dropped while sliding his long, sure fingers across my stomach. “You’ve got a more important guy to worry about these days, I think.”

  “You want to know what I think?” I drape my hand across his, meshing our fingers together. “That there’s enough room in my mind and heart for both my guys.”

  His expression softens, despite the fierce silver glints in his gaze. As he grazes his grip upward and cups one of my breasts through my dress, he husks, “And what about your delectable goddess body?”

  A reprimanding breath. Well, at least that’s my intention. What comes out instead is a clutching choke, courtesy of the million zings between my legs. The fire caused by his simple touch. His adamant possession. The effect he alone wields over my desperate, electrified senses.

  Damn it. Damn it.

  “My body says that if you don’t stop, we’re going to be really late to the party.”

  His rough velvet hum does nothing to turn down the wattage in my blood. He worsens things by rolling his caresses
across my chest, to the nipple already hardening for him. “My body says it likes how yours thinks.”

  “Who says I’m thinking anymore?” A truth if I’ve ever uttered one, especially as he teases my distended nub with his thumb.

  “Who says that’s a problem?”

  I don’t even try to concoct a quip at that. Not when the man puts actions to his words, jerking at the cinch of his towel so it puddles at our feet.

  The shoosh of the material on the floor coincides with my dazed sigh. Holy God. This man and his flawless penis. Will I ever get over my amazement at him—and it? No wonder he’s always had girls fighting like rabid spider monkeys to have it just for a night.

  Not anymore.

  This god is mine, for always and forever. I indulge one more moment of feminine victory about that, using the excuse to admire him more. He’s long and proud but with a girth that promises ultimate satisfaction, especially with the mighty veins standing out against the burnished hardness. Veins that pulse with a mesmerizing cobalt hue from the moment I stroke him, starting at his taut balls and ending at the searing bulb at his tip.

  “Bunny,” he rasps, rolling his hips to shuttle that stunning length in and out of my grip. “Holy fuck.”

  I press closer, working him over with taunting little twists. “That a threat or a promise, Bolt Man?”

  “Neither.” He punctuates with a short smash of his lips to mine. “Too much thinking required.”

  I find the presence for a flirty pout. “So no holy fucking?”

  Taking out my inner coquette has clearly unlocked the cage on his inner Cro-Magnon. And damn, does the caveman look go well with this man’s dark gorgeousness. With his nostrils flaring and his cheekbones harsh slashes beneath his skin, he seizes me by the hand and drags me across the bedroom. But he doesn’t take me to the bed. Within a few steps, we’re in front of the arched window that overlooks the back garden. I smile as I look down to the sturdy hammock swing hanging from the tree—and the illicit way we used it when “christening” the garden during our first week in the house.

  But the smile doesn’t stay in place long.

  It’s replaced by my stunned gape, courtesy of my tantalizing troglodyte and his horny impatience, who reaches from behind me to unlatch the window. In the same motion, he swings out the dual panes. In the next second, he’s planting my hands atop the small ledge and then pushing the insides of my feet with his.

  He spreads me wide until I’m secured and braced at both edges of the indention. Inside another second, he’s shoved my dress up to my waist. Inside the third, he twists his other hand into the waistband of my lace panties, causing my pussy to clench and gush. Oh, gawd. It’s such a clichéd reaction to a seduction stereotype, but for a guy who can—and has, many times—fry away that waistband like a torch through butter, this grabbing-the-undies thing is new for him—and thus, for me.

  And it’s exciting as hell.

  A new color to the fireworks. A new amplitude to the electric box. Which definitely means the sexy beast is going to get what he damn well wants from my sweet box.

  And yeah, I just went for that cliché, as well.

  And yeah, do I mean every syllable.

  God.

  Yes.

  Anything.

  Not that I’m capable of knowing what a syllable even is as soon as the man leans in while torqueing my underwear tighter. I moan deeply, reacting to the delicious pain as the lace slices into the skin above my mons. I tense a little, waiting for the inevitable rip, but damn it if the man isn’t aware of everything his torment is doing to me—so instead of destroying the panties, he starts using them. Yes, just as they are. Yes, without any extra voltage from his fingertips. Just that strip of lace, transformed into a stiff blade, and his artistry with it as a weapon of erotic intent.

  Which, at the moment, involves sliding the material along my most sensitive flesh. And then again. And then—despite how I buck and gasp and wriggle as my clit shivers and shudders and pulses—yet again.

  At last, he dips in closer. Fits his mouth against my ear while giving my pussy a reprieve from his wicked treatment. But it’s not the enormous relief it seems, with his breath coming in torrid gusts along with the carnal words he brings in between.

  “You’re completely right, my beautiful bunny. No holy fucking right now.” He wields his teeth too, sinking them into the flesh beneath my ear. “Only rutting.” Then bites me harder. “Claiming. Burning. Owning.”

  Somehow, I force my lips around a word of response.

  “Yes.”

  Then shove my hips back, offering more of my intimacy to his deeper invasion.

  “Yes.”

  Then gyrate against him, all but demanding him to finally set my crotch free—so it can fully service his.

  “Yes!”

  The eruption of my cry is joined by the brutal zwip of the lace he finally severs. As my panties brush my inner thighs during their descent to the floor, I practically come from that naughty sensation. But damn it, Reece is in his finest mind-reading form, and his growl zaps me away from that precipice with as much command as his new digs into my hips. “Remember that part about owning you, Mrs. Richards?”

  I tremble because it feels like my only viable choice. “Y-Yes, Mr. Richards.” The words, equally undeniable. I don’t need to be commanded into the formality; his stark snarl has already made that part clear. Just like this morning, he doesn’t plan on sealing this connection with raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, and a Hallmark Channel cuddle. And like this morning, I comprehend the reason why—with even greater clarity. Faline doesn’t have him shackled to a lab table anymore, but she’s still violating him all the same. Her evil lives on, infiltrating the warrens of his imagination. But in the safe space that is thoroughly us, he can gain that control back. Get himself back.

  And I’ll do anything to help him.

  Though as soon as the proclamation rings through my mind, I have to stifle a giggle at myself. I’m not exactly the village virgin sacrificing myself in the dragon’s dungeon here. This restoration is just as much mine as his. I’m certain the man can already tell by feeling the pebbles along my skin and listening to the needy gasps from my lips—which pitch higher as he curls his hands around the top of my hips. He locks my body in place as he works his wet, throbbing cockhead between the swollen, soaked lips at my most intimate core.

  “That means I tell your body what it can and cannot do.” His growl is low and lava thick, a perfect match to the steady rolls of his hips behind mine. He sounds even better as he fits his glorious penis into my shivering tunnel. “Do you understand?” As I manage a frantic nod, he dictates, “No. In words. With those gorgeous, nasty lips of yours. Do. You. Understand?”

  “Y-Yes. I understand.”

  “Perfect. Now do you understand that your beautiful cunt will take every inch of my cock, no matter how deep or hard I fuck it?”

  I swallow with purpose, needing to regain some of the control he’s robbed with his magical, filthy words. “Y-Yes,” I finally manage. “I’ll take all of your cock, no matter how hard or deep.”

  A truth he enforces the very next second—by gripping me ruthlessly and hauling my body back until he’s buried to the balls inside me. At once, my limbs are golden fire and my body is a sparkling sun. Holy shit, he feels good. I close my eyes as my pores open, flowing with arousal and warmth and energy. I’m stretched and seared and stimulated, consumed by his strength until an exigent cry explodes from my lips.

  Though my outburst layers over his dark moan, the man states with complete composure, “No coming, Bunny. Not until I tell you to. Understood?” When my dry throat only gives a croak of response, the man brings me back online by seizing his hold around my buttocks—arranging his thumbs dangerously close to the pucker that separates them. “Do. You. Understand?”

  “Yes!” I damn near shriek. “Yes, I understand. No coming unless you—aaahhh!”

  Though he’s going to make the effort as
hellacious as possible, after wetting my asshole with some spittle and then teasing the aperture with those talented thumbs of his.

  “Repeat yourself.” His order is more arousing than that caress, raw sex mixed with pure sin, a carnal threat blended with erotic promise. And all he’s asking for are a few words in return—but the idea of them feels so impossible because thought itself has become a bizarre concept. Surely the man himself must know that, simply from how my body clenches beneath him and my wet walls squeeze around him. “All the words this time. Repeat yourself.”

  “No…no coming…oh!” I grit my teeth as he shoves his thumbs in deeper, setting off another firestorm through my senses. Words. I have to remember the words. Well, the ones besides the choice labels I’m wanting to rage all over him at the moment. “N-No coming, unless you tell me I can.”

  His pleased hum is worth the price my senses paid for it. And yes, even the cost of being egregiously late to the Makras’ fundraiser. It’s more than just sound on the air. It’s the timbre in his throat as he emits it, the fresh strength in his hold around me, and the brighter force in every finger he grips me with—including the thumbs he keeps working into my tender backside. And yes, the breathtaking boldness in every roll of his hips, resulting in every steady slide of his steely cock into my tremoring body. The body I order into submission by clenching my fists and stabbing fingernails into my palms as he swirls me into a fuzzy fugue state because of my spiraling lust and heat and need.

  “Hang on, baby.” He croons it because he can. Because he’s no longer the one beyond control here…who’s all but begging for release every time he surges his body back into mine. Who’s ready to fall apart in a thousand ways, especially as he works his thumbs even deeper into my other entrance, tantalizing me from that direction…

  “Reece!”

  “No, Velvet.”

  “Reece, please!”

  “Not. Yet.”

  “But…I can’t hold on…”