But it had happened. I saw it. I felt it. It was everywhere. It filled the room. It marked his frame. His expression. There was so much of it, I felt it sink into my skin.
I’d taken it too far.
This was proven when, with a feral growl that I could swear originated in his shaft and tore out of his throat at the same time it ripped from my pussy straight through me, his eyes dark and riled, he wrapped an arm tight around my waist. He flipped me to my back. I then found my wrists captured and pressed deep into the bed, his face an inch from mine, his cock pounding brutally between my legs.
And it…
Was…
Astounding.
“Knees high,” he grunted.
Without a thought outside what that would give to me—or what more it’d give to me—I lifted my knees high.
Oh yes.
It gave me more.
“Legs wide,” he bit out.
I acquiesced but not enough.
His thrusts turned savage.
My breaths started to hitch.
“Legs…wide,” he growled.
I spread as wide as I could.
“You submit.”
It was a question and an order.
“Yes,” I whispered, unable to say more, speak louder.
It was coming.
“You submit,” he repeated.
My legs tensed. My neck muscles strained. My eyes closed.
His fingers tightened around my wrists.
“Olivia, do you submit?”
I forced my eyes open half a centimeter.
But my lips moved on their own.
“Yes,” I gasped. “I submit.”
“Fuck,” he groaned, pounding deep, his lips now brushing mine.
It felt good. I kept taking it. I kept loving it.
But as I did that, most of my attention was taken by experiencing the colossal orgasm that had me so in its thrall, my entire body was tight as a bow, straining to experience it in its totality at the same time contain it so its ferocity didn’t send me flying apart.
On the way down, I was able to pull myself together to enjoy the final thrusts that led to the violent shudders of his climax, doing this feeling his growly sigh against the flesh of my neck.
His hands never released my wrists.
I wrapped my legs around his hips and felt his weight. His heat. I smelled his hair. Our sex. I felt his cock embedded in me like it was made to be there.
And I stared at the ceiling knowing I’d lost.
But all could not be lost.
I couldn’t endure it again.
And I wasn’t going to let another man endure it.
I allowed myself that moment of him pinning me to the bed, his body my whole world, my legs wrapped tight around his hips like it was my right to hold him to me.
Then he released a wrist.
I released his hips.
His head came up and his sated eyes caught mine.
“Unh-unh,” he muttered, not happy I let him go.
“I need to clean up,” I declared.
His head tipped slightly to the side. “You never clean up right after.”
“I need to clean up,” I repeated.
He grinned at me.
That was two that day.
Both of them sublime.
I had to get out of there.
“You’re freaked.”
“Sebring, get off.”
He shoved his hand in at my back, still grinning. “Totally liked bein’ pinned to the bed, taking your fucking.”
“Get off,” I demanded.
His grin got bigger.
It was a smile.
His eyes danced with it.
Oh God.
Those eyes got closer.
God!
“Fuckin’ loved it,” he whispered.
His hand shifted down.
I went completely still.
His hand kept going down.
No!
I bucked violently.
“Off,” I demanded.
“Olivia.”
“Get off me!” I snapped.
He didn’t move.
Except his hand.
I felt my lower lip tremble and to stop it, I pressed both lips together as his fingers trailed the scar at my back.
No.
“Off,” I whispered.
He seemed distracted, but at my word, he looked to me.
“Olivia—”
“Get off me.”
“I saw them last night.”
I shut my mouth.
His gaze dropped there then lifted back to my eyes.
“How’d it happen?” he asked like it was a normal question. Like my scar wasn’t an unspeakable shame, declaring to the world what I was, what was in my blood, who I belonged to.
I didn’t speak.
“It looked bad,” he noted.
My mouth was filling with saliva so I forced myself to swallow. He watched my throat work then returned his attention back to my face.
“Does it still hurt?” he asked.
“No,” I lied shortly.
Or semi-lied.
The pain was there.
It just wasn’t physical.
“Then why won’t you let me touch it?” he asked.
“It’s hideous,” I pointed out the obvious.
“Only caught a glimpse of it but it just looked like a scar to me.”
Yes, to him that was all it would be.
“Scars aren’t attractive,” I remarked.
“Anything about anyone is attractive as long as they’re the kind of person who can be attractive however that comes about. Including scars. You got beautiful hair, Olivia. Unbelievable eyes. An amazing body. That scar’s just a part of you. It’s not hideous. It’s like you. It’s fascinating.”
There was beauty in what he said, and that beauty intensified if he actually believed it and wasn’t spouting rubbish.
Still, my response was, “That’s easy for you to say, not having such a scar or having the time when you earned it.”