Hate (25 page)

Breaking free, I shoved him back onto the bed and slid the tips of my fingers down his body. Stopping only when I met his waistband, I bit the flesh of my lip and rolled my eager hips into his.

I felt like an animal, wild and insatiable, my every fantasy slamming into the forefront of my brain and demanding to be fulfilled. I wanted to live him. Ride him, ravage him, and make him
feel
every single fucking thing I felt.

Anticipation electrified my skin, flashing through my every nerve ending torturously—begging and crying and demanding to be assuaged.

My hands slapped down on his thighs, fingernails clawing and claiming and calling for his aggression.

And boy did he answer.

My back hit the bed and his hips met mine, thrusting and pushing just enough to simultaneously ease and intensify the building pressure in my womb.

His lips had yet to meet mine, and that was the first thing I planned on changing. But I wasn’t in charge anymore, and while his lips went to work on my collar bone, my set of nerve-filled flesh sat bereft.

My hands closed in on his toned back, and the tips of my fingers squeezed out of pure reflex.

This was Blane.

Shirtless.

On fucking top of me.

Just the thought of it had an extra pulse throbbing between my legs.

His lips came up my neck, over the crest of my jaw, and finished by hovering just a millimeter away from mine.

“Whitney,” he whispered, the muscles in his arms standing out in stark relief as he held himself nearly weightless above me.

But the sound of my name on his lips, like that, at that moment, scared me to death.

If you asked me what I was afraid of, I’m not sure I’d be able to tell you. But it was a deep rooted feeling. One that hinted that if I let him talk, if we got into our normal conversation, this wouldn’t happen.

And I
really
wanted it to happen. I needed to be close to him, and it wasn’t just the need to feel alive. It had more to do with facing something I’d longed to have for the entirety of my adult life, and then coming so close to never ever having the chance to have it.

His hands skimmed down my arms gently—a complete contradiction to the raw and rapid motion of the rest of his body—and paused momentarily with his palms against mine. Our fingers didn’t lace, and his hands didn’t linger, but that one moment felt like it enriched the connection. Deepened it.

Scared the shit out of me.

He didn’t give me time to think though, moving his hands from mine directly to the plump flesh of my ass.

He didn’t cradle it softly, and he didn’t seem timid.

His fingers dug in almost viciously, pulling my hips to his just as his lips left my jaw and honed in on my lips.

He sealed the connection, practically sucking the entirety of my lips in between his, but he didn’t hold it long. The suction retreated and his tongue lashed out along the seam.

I opened immediately, and my legs parted in unison.

I needed him closer. Enveloped. Intrinsic.

My calves closed in around his back, and my ankles linked together. The muscles of my thighs tightened, both conforming to the lines of his torso and forcing his hips closer to me.

One of his hands left my ass and came to the freshly shaven skin of my thigh. I expected him to grab, perhaps even knead it, but he didn’t. His movement stayed slow and his fingers glided gently enough to cause goosebumps.

Meanwhile, his tongue danced with mine, massaging when I gave and tormenting when I took. He drank just as deeply as I did, and I’d been waiting for this for over ten years.

Not that I had admitted that to myself.

“Blane,” I breathed as his lips left mine and closed around my peaked nipple over my shirt.

I’d debated endlessly about whether I was going to come here tonight, whether I had the balls to do this. To stop fucking
thinking
for once, and take what I wanted. So, when I finally made a decision, I’d gone back and forth so much that I forgot to put on a bra under my thin tank top before I left.

Turns out, that was fortuitous.

“Oh, God,” I forced out, the way he was working my nipple causing the very tips of my toes to stretch out and curl.

“God, yes,” he said in response, his hands moving to the bottom of my shirt and skimming their way up, palms flat to the flesh of my stomach. He didn’t pause or dawdle, but he sure as hell didn’t hurry either.

He watched as his hands revealed more and more skin, working their way north, caressing my bare breasts, and finally, forcing the flimsy shirt off over my head.

My arms went up to help him, resistance the very last thing on my mind at the moment, and my back arched almost comically.

I’d never, ever felt this urgency. This primal, visceral need to connect with someone in the most basic, primitive, carnal of ways. It was almost like my body thought that a few minutes lived connected as one could make up for years and years of distance.

And who was I to judge. Maybe it fucking could.

He took in all of my pale skin, both of my breasts fully pebbled with desire, and swallowed. When his voice surfaced, it was rough, almost hoarse, and his eyes moved from my chest to my face.

“You are
beautiful
.”

A chill ran up my spine, the pleasure of those words falling from his lips just too great.

“Please. I want you inside me. I want to feel you. And me. You and me,
together.
”

“I want that too,” he agreed, his eyes still moving over my face like a physical caress. But the rest had ground to a halt.

My legs were still wrapped around him, he was still very much excited, and his eyes still held desire, but that was it. His hands stayed stagnant, and his chest still sat a distance from mine.

“Blane,” I complained, my voice breathy even to my own ears.

“Just give me a minute, Whit. God, just let me look at you,” he begged, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind my ear.

His eyes lingered there, and as if pulled from somewhere painful, he commented, “You dyed it.”

Self-consciously, I looked to the hair on my shoulder. “Yeah, I, um…well, I—” I searched for an explanation. But we both knew the truth.

“It’s still gorgeous.”

I suddenly felt unsure, unlocking my ankles and beginning to let my legs fall back to his sides.

But he didn’t let me. Instead, he grabbed both of my thighs—and this time he did
grab
them—and forced them back around the taut muscles of his torso.

His chest collapsed onto mine, and his lips once again drank enthusiastically.

Within thirty seconds of full tongue on tongue contact, I was distracted again, just barely noticing as he reached for a condom in the drawer beside the bed, his lips still on mine.

My mind bounced briefly to the fact that he had condoms in the drawer of his hotel nightstand, but it didn’t stay there long.

Before I knew it, it was on his hands as they trailed down my arms and captured mine. It was on his drawstring as he guided my fingers there, and it was on the warm, slightly hairy skin of his abdomen as I found my way inside.

My fingers trailed both sides of the V made of muscle, and his mouth once again closed over the tip of my nipple. But this time it was the other, his attention spread evenly between the sides, and my back arched off of the bed in response again.

He hummed his approval around my breast, the vibrations tickling me all the way from my chest, down my belly, and to the apex between my legs.

I moved my hands from his defined muscle to the very
definite
muscle jutting out between us.

He was long and hard, and of a girth that certainly wouldn’t disappoint. And yet, I didn’t fear he’d break me either.

In my head, I’d always thought, the bigger the better, but now, feeling him for myself, I knew that it wasn’t true.

What was really better was the one that fit. The one that seemed like its size was designed purely for my body, and no one else.

I pulled his pants down, the palms of each of my hands glancing over the taut muscle of his ass. It flexed as I touched it, and his hips surged forward marginally.

His hands left mine and went to the front of my shorts, pulling them off as I lifted my butt to help him.

He reached for the condom as I kicked my shorts all the way off, rolling it down his length and making sure it was fully seated at the bottom.

He kissed me in the center of the chest before moving to the skin directly above my heart.

As he dropped his lips to that spot, my heartbeat sped up.

I reached between us and grabbed him, guiding him to my entrance as the sound of our heavy breathing overwhelmed the otherwise silent room.

As the tip slid in, I reached around and grabbed ahold of his ass once again. It was not only erotic, it was emotional.

With my hands there, I felt like I was directly in control of his actions. With just a push, I forced him inside further. And in a love story where I’d had so little control, every fiber of it seemed like a victory.

I hadn’t been able to stop myself from falling in love. Of course, then, I hadn’t been able to act on it. And then, the most tragic of all, I hadn’t been able to keep him in my life.

All at once, a rush of tears flooded my eyes, but I fought them back, tucking my chin to my chest and pushing his hips further into mine.

Blane wasn’t having it.

He reached for my chin, lifting it up and then wiping a lone escaped tear.

“Whitney,” he whispered, just before seating himself fully, our eyes locked on each other.

I’d never felt more connected to a person. Not through the physical act of sex, and not through any kind of other relationship.

I felt owned, and quite possibly, whole for the very first time. I felt like I’d been living my entire life as a half of a person, completely unbeknownst to myself. And finally, finally, I’d found the huge chunk that’d been missing.

Of course, this made me cry even harder.

Just what every guy wanted when they were trying to throw you a bang. Talk about a soft-on causer.

But not Blane.

He held my eyes, refusing to let go in spite of the water works.

In fact, he smiled, and a lone tear dropped from his handsome face to mine. I’d only seen a man cry a couple of times before, and I wouldn’t even go as far as to say he was. But he responded to my emotion almost as if I had been the half he’d been missing as well. Like while we were connected, my emotion was his and vice versa.

It was so overwhelming, I started to tremble.

Blane moved out slowly, just barely setting a mind-numbing, torture-filled pace.

We were so quiet, neither of us speaking, and it seemed weird. For two people whose banter flowed freely and often, we had nothing to say.

For me, I couldn’t help but think that it was because our bodies were saying everything. So much so that absolutely no words were needed.

It seemed cheesy, but I swore I could feel how he was going to move before he did it. I felt like all of our chemistry that we normally spoke through words was being spoken through actions.

His lips met mine, the salt of our tears mixing just enough to taste the difference on my tongue.

Our hips moved in tandem, the friction of his pelvis on mine unlike anything I’d ever felt before, and likely, would never feel again.

I felt a tremor run through my body, the tips of his fingers gliding their way back to my ass and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

My hands tried to clench into fists, but they got stuck on his back, digging in and cutting into his skin with their fingernails.

His lips explored mine, mapping out the edges and circling the gap between them. It was torture.

I wanted him to slip his tongue inside, mirror the motion of our hips, explore the tip of my tongue with the tip of his. I wanted him to massage the taste buds on every millimeter of my tongue, leaving behind the evidence of him.

As his tongue finally breached the gap between my lips, I felt the complete pleasure of being consumed by him with my every sense. I could hear his breathing, see the sweat beading on his handsome face as he worked to bring us both pleasure. I could taste his essence on my tongue and smell the distinct connection of our bodies.

And touch. Well, it was arguably the most overwhelmed of my senses, unable to focus on just one thing. His skin was smooth beneath my fingers, but I could feel the evidence of my scratches in a few rough lines of ruffled skin. I could feel the pressure build as he worked his way in and out of me, the friction of his body leaning on mine in just the right spot.

The weight of his body rested partly on mine, making me feel surrounded and centered in the act, completely and utterly at his disposal. And I could feel his soft lips on mine, our kisses wet and tantric and downright delicious.

I’d never known it was possible to have a wet kiss without slobber. But it was.

You bet it was.

And it was delirious.

He worked hard without making it seem like work, keeping his rhythm steady, his hands on me, and yet still not crushing me with the full impact of his weight.

Some of the only evidence of his strife glistened off of him like glitter, pulling my attention to him in a way that was undeniable. It made him even more attractive, more real. More manly.

It was downright sexy, and when I really thought about it, I just barely believed it was even possible it was real.

But it was.

My body contracted around his, milking him, sucking him inside, and begging for his much deserved release.

His lips left mine, but his eyes took their place, watching every facet of my face as I fell over the cliff, stars and blackness overwhelming my previously vivid vision.

My head shot back, the arch of my back curving like the line of my legs as they unlocked from behind him and clenched to his sides.

He growled his release at the tail end of mine, throwing his head back and exposing the long, muscular column of his tan throat. His hands came to my jaw as his head tipped back forward, his forehead coming to rest directly on mine.