Ghost (Boston Underworld #3) - A. Zavarelli Page 0,51
going to fuck me every day,” I tell him. “But you’re a liar.”
He’s on me then. I’ve never seen him move so fast.
His body is pressing me down against the desk, one hand tangling in my hair and yanking my head to the side so he can kiss my throat. The other is fumbling with his belt and zipper. He frees his cock and then sinks inside of me.
There’s a sigh of contentment, and then some angry muffled Russian against the skin of my throat. He fucks me into the desk and I get more of the same, wrapping my legs around him and letting him use me.
He fucks me hard. Punishing. But the war he is fighting is with himself.
I don’t understand a single thing he’s saying, but his message is clear in any language when he yanks me off the desk and sends me down onto my knees.
I take his cock in my mouth and he gags me with it. And then strokes my face in a tender gesture. I get more of the same. Harsh and then gentle. The words continue to flow from his mouth uninhibited, and I’d give anything to know what he was saying to me right now.
I feel him tensing. But he won’t let himself come. He grabs my head to hold me in place, allowing himself time to pull back from the edge. And then he’s yanking me up, flipping me over. Now my ass is hanging off the desk, and he’s behind me.
“Don’t move,” he tells me.
I feel him disappear from the room, but only for a moment. When he comes back, there’s a candle in his hand, which he sets on the desk beside me.
Anticipation and fear war inside of me.
But between them, somewhere in the middle, is the one thing I shouldn’t feel.
Trust.
I can hear him shuffling through his drawers, and then the smell of butane combined with the catch of the lighter. The room is quiet and still when he leans down and kisses my back. Gentle and soft. Right between my shoulder blades.
“Mine.”
It calms me when he says that. There is so much meaning behind that one word. So much promise. And against my better judgment, I relax for him. Gripping the edge of the desk beneath my palms and laying my face flat against the wood.
He picks up the candle with one hand and strokes my ass with the other.
On the opposite side of the wall, his shadow looms over me. His arm tilting. I close my eyes and breathe. The first drop of wax falls onto my skin and steals that same oxygen. The second hurts less. And the third is when I feel the rush of endorphins.
His palm slides down between my thighs to cup me and then finger me. He alternates his movements from the dripping candle to the hand between my legs. Pleasure and pain. So much pleasure and so much pain. I come harder than I ever have this time. My back covered in heated welts when he drags his fingers down and pulls off the wax while he shoves his cock inside of me. And then he’s fucking me again. His hips jarring against my ass. I have to grip the desk to keep myself in place.
I think he’s going to come, but he doesn’t. He flips me back over and lifts me into his arms, holding me close while he fucks me in the most intimate of positions. Face to face.
“I want to look at you,” he tells me. “I need you to always see me.”
He kisses me, and then he comes inside of me.
Then he lays me down on the desk and steps back.
“Stay like that,” he tells me as he sits back down in the chair. “I want to look at you.”
That’s what he says. But I have a feeling that isn’t the case at all. I have a feeling he put me in this position for a reason. Legs bent and knees up. He wants me to get pregnant. To have his baby. And yet, when he finishes with me here tonight, he will go to his room. And I, to mine. We will not have lingering conversation or touches because we are both afraid.
So I disobey him by sitting up and gathering up my clothes.
I can’t bring myself to leave without a word, so I lift my fingers up to touch his bruised and swollen face.