“Samsyn.” It hardly had any volume, thanks to my air-starved lungs. They didn’t get
any mercy from the sight of him: face twisted, body prowling, hands coiling and uncoiling,
readying fists for something,
anything
, to bash in.
He found that something.
In the form of his reflection—in the master bedroom’s huge floor mirror.
The whole pane shattered beneath his single blow. Glass tumbled like tears—a fitting
recognition, since the shards blurred in the heavy fog of mine.
He turned slowly. Glass crackled under his boots, demolished tears meeting violent
ends. His head was low, his shoulders hunched…his glower stony. “You need to leave.”
I squared my stance. The action drew his stare to my bare feet. For a single second,
concern flashed in his eyes. That single second was my sun stream of hope.
“No,” I declared. “
You
need to listen. What you saw was—”
“Don’t.” He stabbed that finger again. Blood smeared it now. “Don’t try to tell me
it was nothing, dammit!”
I inhaled. Exhaled. “Maybe I should chalk this up to the full moon tonight. In Romania,
guys turn to werewolves and vampires. In Arcadia, they turn into ridiculous asses.”
“Now you really need to leave.”
“I am
not
your mother! Just as I know and trust that you aren’t your father.”
I expected what came: his contorted face, hunched shoulders, seething hiss. I hated—
hated
—tearing us both down more with this ugliness, but it was the only way we’d build
back up on the right foundation: the truth. Symbolizing the point always helped too—a
demonstration I gave by stomping across the six feet separating us. When I stood directly
in front of him, I replanted my feet, crushing more glass with nearly the same emphasis
he had.
“I love you.” His widened glare gave me more courage. I jerked up my chin. Coiled
a hand into the front of his shirt. “Wake up and see it, Samsyn. I’m right here, bleeding
for you to prove it. There is nobody—
nobody
—in my heart…but you.”
For long moments, only our breaths sounded on the air. Only the blue steel torment
of his eyes filled my vision—until that color changed again. Hardened. Condemned.
“I never asked to be there.”
“I know.” My voice broke, along with more tears. I couldn’t hold back any of it from
him now. I didn’t even want to.
“I don’t
want
to be there!”
I raised my hand to his face. Spread my fingers against the bold expanse of his jaw.
“Then show me where you want to be.” Stepped closer to him, fitting the angles of
our bodies into each other. “Fill me where you need to.”
It danced at the edge of dirty tactics. Fine; it
was
dirty tactics. But if the radio station in his brain was packed so full of baggage
that it couldn’t get our signal, I’d send the message where it
could
be heard. His body, swelling against the center of my stomach, conveyed the frequency
had connected, loud and clear. I’d take it. Right now, I’d take him any way I could
have him—and sex was one of the best ways to have him. Perhaps this was just the push
to topple the baggage too. Perhaps this was what we
both
needed.
Or maybe that was a giant crock of wishful thinking.
Aside from his erection, nothing else budged.
I held my breath.
He expelled his.
Then made me wonder, with his deep and feral snarl, if the werewolf thing worked in
Arcadia too. As the sound vibrated the air, I endured shivers like never before, released
by a mix of desire and fear, of knowing and unknowing, of pleasure and pain—
As he dipped his head, bypassing my lips, and sank his teeth brutally into the column
of my neck.
A high cry ripped from me. Another growl tore through him. He fisted my hair, positioning
my head to the side in order to bite again, closer to my ear. This time, I didn’t
scream. My senses were too damn busy processing every new, searing sensation. He tore
into me like a wild creature with its kill—meaning I really had no choice about how
to respond.
Surrender.
His feast was inevitable; he’d take until he was sated. If I had any doubt of it,
he clarified things pretty well inside the next moment. One grip and tear into my
cardigan, and all the buttons popped free. Another into my blouse, with the same result.
He shoved both garments off, though slipped the long satin ribbon from the neckline
of the blouse, holding onto it.
Oh, yes. Crystal clear now.
He
was going to be in control.
I
was only to obey. And to feel.
And ohhhh shit, how I did.
How he guaranteed that I did.
Before we even got to the bed, he jerked my head to the other side and marked my neck
with two bites equal to the first ones. He carried me to the bed—okay, it was more
like hoisting me up then tossing me there—before pausing to grab a water glass off
the nightstand, pouring its contents over my feet. Once he was certain I’d gotten
only a few minor cuts, he tilted his head in, now digging teeth into my right ankle.
“Ahhhhh!”
He endured my scream—more from astonishment than the bite of pain—with barely a blink.
“Do
not
bleed for me again,” he ordered.
“All-all right.”
“You may say ‘yes, husband’—and nothing more.”
“Yes, husband.” It whispered from me, so breathy and bare—and I hated myself for loving
every syllable. It was so medieval. So subservient.
But so open…so erotic…
I wanted to serve him. Satisfy him. Be his wild animal meal.
“Now take off the rest of your clothes.” He rumbled with guttural approval as I obeyed,
quickly stripping off my skirt, bra, and panties. No further words, though—not even
as he grabbed my knees, spread them wide, then moved between them, letting the taut
cloth at his crotch rub my spread pussy without mercy.
“Damn!” I exclaimed, as he leaned over to study my face with his assessing animal’s
gaze. “I—I mean, yesssss, husband!”
He showed no outward reaction to that either. Instead, rolled his hips to ensure every
inch of his bulge came into contact with every fold of my arousal—including the stiff
bud containing my most sensitive nerve endings. Every time he rubbed it, my skin tingled.
My control thinned. My limbs trembled. Shit.
Shit.
This was…
so…
damn…
good
.
At last he murmured, “Do you still want me to fill you…as I wish?”
Was he kidding? He had to be. I was visibly quivering. Whimpering like a starved kitten.
I could
feel
every fresh, torturous swell of my clit. But when I didn’t answer, he pulled away
a little. Gave my mound a brisk, bold swat.
Dear God. He’d…
spanked
my pussy.
And heaven help me, after the initial zap of shock wore off, my whole body warmed
and writhed…confirming how much I loved it.
“Y-yes,” I finally got out. “Yes, husband. Fill me up…as you wish.”
“In any manner I wish?”
“Yes, husband.”
He leaned back in. Rose over me once more, staring down. I stared right back…riveted.
This creature above me…he was Syn but he wasn’t, as if confronting his darkest fears
about me had untethered something dark in him. Something wicked, wanton, illicit…something
he hadn’t shown me before now. Why? Had he been afraid? And if that was the case…should
I
be afraid? And if so, why didn’t the idea repel me? Why did my body get wetter, hotter…
Then doubly so, when he aligned the satin tie from my blouse directly over my face…
And lowered it over my eyes.
Shit
.
He was really serious that I do nothing but feel. And ohhhh, how I did.
Skin…fired to life.
Sounds…turned to wonders.
Smells…sweet mysteries.
And my sex…pulsing and hot and ready.
I was aware of so much more from Syn too. Every tug he gave the tie, looping it around
my head then cinching it in front. The shifting power of his muscles when he finished,
then growled in approval of his handiwork. The erotic slide of his vest against my
nipples, making them pucker and ache in arousal.
I moaned when he trailed a hand down to my pussy…
But choked it short, as he delved those long fingers even lower. Then inward, circling,
pressing—
“Oh!”
—at my tightest entrance.
There was the heat of his fingers. But then the chill of lube. Where the hell had
that
come from? And why was I even wondering, when he was pretty damn insistent on working
his finger up into that tiny fissure—then replacing that digit with something else?
Something thin but hard. A glass tube? Molded plastic? And once more, why did it matter?
I was fighting to keep an open mind—past the unnatural breach in my backside. Thank
God I’d eavesdropped on Orielle and Freya when they giggled about this kind of stuff,
though I’d hardly believed my ears at the time. Men actually liked playing with that
entrance?
Judging from the thick lust in Syn’s new growl, the answer to that was…
yes
.
“Almost in. Now push out against it.” The old Syn would’ve murmured it in encouragement.
This one demanded it in a growl. “Open yourself, wife—and push.”
“Can’t,” I protested. “So tight…so full.”
“No ‘can’t’,” he retorted. “
Push
.”
I gripped the comforter. Bore down as he ordered. It seemed useless. And hard. And
painful. But when I assumed the invasion had no end and the torture device would end
up in my throat, Syn emitted a long grunt, coated in supreme pleasure. He gave the
thing in my ass a twist. Another. Though I gave him nothing but screams in return,
I couldn’t deny that it began to feel…warm. And naughty. And—unbelievably—arousing.
Even when the distinct rasp of his zipper sliced the air—and I realized exactly what
he planned next.
It scared me.
And clenched me.
And soaked me.
I took his cock all the way home on his first thrust.
“
Damn.
” He held himself there for a long moment, allowing us both to adjust to the tightness.
When his flesh swelled against mine, I sighed. When his moan echoed through me, I
joined mine to it.
“Shit,” I finally rasped. “Yes, husband.
Yes.
”
He slowly drew out—only to ruthlessly plunge back in. Then again. And again. Harder
each time. Deeper each time. The friction of our bodies worked the tension on the
thing in my ass too, massaging places inside that vibrated in ways I’d never known.
As the sweet heat of my climax built beneath my clit, it was matched by a force from
deep inside, a hurricane rushing to meet a tsunami, so impossible it was mesmerizing,
despite the devastation of the impact.
Devastation?
No.
This was cosmic convulsion. Cataclysm. Chaos. A rearrangement of everything I’d thought
possible inside my body, erupting to a fullness I despaired of containing to my flesh,
bones and blood. Far beyond the explosion, I heard myself screaming, even begging
Syn not to stop—
please, don’t ever stop
—though I was certain we’d have to any second, for I’d surely be dead. By some miracle,
I hung on to feel the hot bath of his seed, sealing the perfection of this passion…filling
me far beyond anything I could have asked for.
I needed to tell him that. But intention connecting with words…another issue altogether.
My brain hardly managed keeping the basics like breathing and feeling going.
As I fumbled through that mental fog, Syn withdrew. In the same movement, he pulled
off the blindfold. He was equally gentle about removing the hard stick from my backside,
but also silent. Damn near businesslike. No change as he disappeared into the bathroom,
returning with a damp cloth to towel off all the fluids between my legs.
No change
. Wasn’t that the irony of the day…maybe the century? “Change” barely approached the
right word to describe the man who’d been inside me minutes ago, versus the clinical
automaton who swiped at me now. He still didn’t speak. Refused to meet my eyes. A
patient in a hospital would’ve been given more courtesy.
He retreated to the bathroom again. For a long time. I almost followed, but clung
to hoping he’d return, perhaps simply taking the time for a shower. I prayed he’d
return, his knowing smirk back in place, ready to climb beneath the covers with me.
He finally walked back out. Fully dressed.
And instantly piled my fury atop my frustration. Now he’d pulled out the dirty tactics,
however unknowingly—though it was damn difficult to believe the man didn’t have a
clue about how good he looked in workout gear. The black nylon pants and matching
sleeveless shirt were perfect set pieces for the main attraction: the sculpted body
I craved to explore from head to toe…with my tongue. Yes, already again. Yes, that
boldly. That achingly.
“You’re going out?”
“Yes.” He sat in one of the reading chairs—
not
the one in which we’d screwed not more than twelve hours ago—and jerked his runners
on. “I need to clear my head.”
I rolled to my side—purposely not putting any clothes back on. “Wasn’t that what we
just started?”
He pushed a foot into his second shoe. “That…was very good.” Back to the businessman,
with barely a flinch. “And thank you.” Was he going to shake my hand next? “But it
has nothing to do with anything else.”
A lump pushed into my throat. So much for hoping we could get naked in more ways than
one. “Anything…you want to talk out?” No matter what, even before the insanity of
these last two weeks, we’d been able to at least talk to each other.
“Thank you,” he repeated. “But no.”
I sat up. Then got up. There was nothing nearby to throw on so I did the best I could
about looking serious while standing in nothing but my skin. “Syn… we need to at least
address the shit with Jagger—”
“I shall deal with Jagger.” His tone didn’t twist into mob boss territory, though
its thread of quiet rage wouldn’t be missed by a three year-old. That filament wound
through the air between us—a not-so-subtle test. I sensed Syn waiting for what I’d
do with it.