“M-more,” she begs.
I rake my teeth up to her ear, the devil riding my back, his claws sunk into my organs. Possessiveness and jealousy oozes out of the wounds he leaves behind, bleeding into every corner of my being. “Did you wear that dress to make me insane?”
“Yes,” she hiccups. “I know you come here. I knew you’d see me.”
That admission shouldn’t fill me with such pride, such relief, such triumph. But it does. Instead of being alarmed that she knows my usual coffee shop and came here to seduce me, make me jealous, I like it. No, I love it. I love that she thinks about me enough to do something so unusual. I love that she knows my habits. It gives me permission to find out all of hers.
I’m going to know every single one, so help me God.
“Yeah, you came here in the middle of the day hoping for a nice, hard bang, didn’t you?” I lick up the side of her face, growling into her hair. Bouncing her a few times on my lap, then grinding her into the wall and reveling in her broken moan. “Couldn’t even wait to get your dick tease panties off, could you? Such a horny little brat.”
“Byron,” she gasps. And then, my God, she’s climaxing again, moisture spreading where our bodies join, our wet sounds drowning out the falling rain. There is still a bolt turning in my throat, insisting some of the words coming out of my mouth are wrong, unfit for her perfect ears, but when they bring her pleasure, I can’t stop. I can’t do anything but deliver what she needs until…I start to crave her response to the disrespectful words I groan into her ear.
“You’re going to go back to your office with sticky thighs and messy hair. Everyone is going to know you spent your lunchbreak with your legs open.” It doesn’t occur to me until this moment that I’m not wearing a condom. No protection, whatsoever. Christ, I should pull out. Now. I’m on the verge of the most explosive orgasm of my life. But instead of doing the responsible thing, I’ve got her ass cheeks gripped tight in my hands and I’m pounding harder, my teeth on edge, sweat pouring down the sides of my face. “My dirty girl likes it raw,” I heave into her ear, my balls spasming, sending hot liquid up the trunk of my cock. And I follow my primal urge to plant it deep. Every drop. I shove her knees open until they’re flush with the wall and pump upward, holding, grinding my hips, kissing her incredible mouth while spurt after spurt of come empties into her body. “You love getting it bareback in that pretty fuck hole, don’t you?” I grit out against her lips, watching her eyes go dreamlike, almost as if she’s hypnotized. That naked enjoyment, her reaction to me coming inside of her, only heightens the euphoria. “Fuck, Jane. Fuck!”
The ripples invading my abdomen seem like they’re never going to end. Wave after wave of unimaginable pressure passes through my loins, then relief hits, then more pressure. Where is it all coming from? It’s as though I’ve stored this hedonism up for her, just her. Just Jane. And I never want to give it to anyone else again. My body agrees with the decision being made in my chest, hips flexing, pressing, eager to be milked by her tight channel. Dying to leave every ounce of me inside of her perfection.
“Mine,” I say on a shudder, pressing our foreheads together. Falling forward into her body and wrapping my arms around her, hauling her up against me. “Mine.”
“Yes.” She nods, her head bumping my chin. “Now you know.”
We remain like that for a few minutes, getting our bearings. Remembering how to breathe. I flatten my palms on the wall above her head and watch from above as she arranges my clothes, zipping me back into my pants. Re-tucking my shirt.
I’ve just broken my oath and yeah, there is guilt involved. Conflict batting its wings inside of me. But not near enough to stay away from Jane. I assume we’re going to make plans to see each other again. Immediately.
Tonight.
Sooner, if possible. Maybe we can call in sick for the rest of the day.
I want all of her free time. Every second of it.
I want to take her home, see her in every room of my house. In my bathtub, on my staircase, at my breakfast bar. In my bedroom. God, yes, I need her there.
So all I can do is stand there in shock as she kisses my mouth one last time, slips back into her damp dress and disappears from the coffee shop patio without another word. By the time I realize she isn’t coming back, she’s long gone. Nowhere to be found on the sidewalk, on the street.
Gone.
What in the hell just happened?
Five
Jane
“Could you move the tree a little to the right?” I wait for the maintenance technician to shuffle the potted foliage a few centimeters, leaning back to inspect its symmetry with the rest of the room. “Perfect.”
I reach up to adjust the string of orange and white lights hanging in the “haunted” tree, then turn to survey the rest of the room. The Firestarter Halloween party is just over a week away and we’re already halfway through decorating the warehouse space I found. We currently have the overhead halogens off so I can get the full effect of the purple and orange lighting that will run throughout the room. Tables are being positioned strategically, the bar stocked, the crime scene arranged.
It’s coming together beautifully.
Byron will be pleased with me.
Hope and yearning and obsession join forces inside of my chest, expanding, causing me to lose my train of thought along with my breath. Yes, more than anything in this world, I want that man to be happy with my efforts here. I want him to smile and enjoy himself—two things he hasn’t done in far too long.
Except for yesterday.
I succeeded in giving him enjoyment outside the coffee shop, our bodies plastered together, soaked in rain. So much enjoyment that I can still feel the deliciously large shape of him inside me twenty-four hours later. Can still feel his fingers digging into my buttocks, his staccato breaths on my neck. Is it way too much to hope for that I’m having a positive effect on Byron? That I’m nudging him back toward the living where he belongs? Because that was my plan. I wanted to show him it was okay to live again. In the light.
Not to drag him into the darkness.
And I’m afraid that might be what I’m doing, instead.
Making him call me names, begging him to shame me, like I deserve. I deserve to be shamed for what I’ve done. But he’s too good a man for that, right? I can’t turn him into a twisted root like me. My fear that I’m going to drag him with me into the pitch black is why I haven’t answered his calls for the last day. So many calls. Every time I let my phone ring without picking up, it’s like a knife rotating in my belly. I didn’t even allow myself to watch him swim this morning and it’s had me off kilter all day.
Rubbing at the ache in my throat, I find a place away from the noise so I can make a phone call to the caterers. But before I can dial, a door opens on the other side of the venue—and in walks Byron.
His sudden presence screams through me like screeching tires.
I drop my clipboard. Almost sink straight to the ground.
What is he doing here?
Does he want to check on the progress of the party or is he here to see me?
Yesterday morning I would have cried tears of joy if this man wanted to be around me, spend time with me, but now? As he strides toward me with a purposeful set to his chin, I worry for him. He doesn’t know what he’s getting into. I just wanted to make up for what I’d done by showing him some pleasure, some happiness, but I’m not the woman for the job. I’m going to turn him into something that he’s not, all because I’m broken and wrong.