Wetness coats my thighs, and I reach back to feel it on my fingers, but it’s not nearly enough to give me what I need. The friction, the fullness. The pain. I need it so badly. It’s the only thing that can heal me.
I position myself over his saliva-slickened cock and slowly impale myself until I can’t take anymore. Until his dark brown curls fuse with my short, blonde ones. Until I can’t tell where my body ends and where his begins.
Tucker looks up at me like I am a goddess and my body is his only religion. For twenty minutes, I let him worship me with his hands and tongue and praise. And when pressure collects inside that little knot inside me that urges me to take him harder, faster, deeper, I bless him with an orgasm so intense that neither one of us can move, let alone talk. We can barely even breathe.
He kisses the top of my head, murmuring words of adoration and amazement. Telling me how happy I’ve made him, and how he only wants to do the same for me . . . forever. I turn into his chest and inhale the scent of his sweat, and I resist the urge to lap up every salty drop. I tamp down the desire to bite his humid flesh, to rake my fingernails over his skin until it blisters with tiny droplets of blood. And in turn, he would flip me over and fuck me like a wild dog, punish me for my transgression until I cry from the brutality. I’d trade all his sweet nothings and replace them with vile slurs said in a frenzy of violent passion. He’d spank my bare ass as he fucked me until my skin was bright pink and burning with his handprints. He would pull my hair until my scalp stung with red-hot needles. And just before I found sweet relief in all the pain, he’d grasp my throat until I came so hard that I’d lose consciousness.
That scares me. I scare me. Because if he knew what I really wanted, what would really make me lose myself in a haze of pleasure, he would realize just how sick and wrong I am. And he’s worked so hard to make me right again.
I can be good for him. Whatever I’m feeling, whatever I am . . . it’s just a phase or remnants of PTSD. It’s not the real me. It’s not what I really want. What I want is Tucker—sweet, safe, stable Tucker. And dammit, he wants me. And I’d be damned if I lose him over imagined affliction inside my twisted mind.
I prop my chin on my hands and look down into sky blue eyes, and smile. He smiles back, causing those too-full lips to fall into a smile too pretty for any man to possess. And I know right then and there, exactly what I want. And what I will always desire from this gorgeous man that has taken the scattered pieces of me and put me back together into something more beautiful than it was before.
Love me.
Hate me.
Chapter Fourteen
NOW
It’s the middle of the night when I realize I’m not alone. There’s someone stalking in the shadows of my pitch-black bedroom. Someone watching me sleep, counting each inhale and exhale. Admiring the way the moonlight casts tattooed ghosts on my hauntingly pale skin. Breathing in the scent of my naked sex, still slick with a salacious dream.
He touches my shoulder, brushing the skin so softly that his fingernails feel like feather vanes. The whispered caress moves down my back, deliberately stroking every column of vertebrae until his hand stops at the top of my ass. He gently probes my seam and applies just a breath of delicate pressure at my puckered place before moving down to the wet, hot swell just below.
I wish I had the nerve to tell him not to stop. To go back to that little slice of exile and make it his. To rip me open and make me cry and scream with the pain of intense pleasure. But alas, I stay quiet. Because there is nothing decent or romantic about wanting a man to fuck your ass so good and deep that you can’t sit the next day. And Tucker is a champion of decency and romance.
He slips a finger inside me and it goes in easily. He fills me with another and I take it with an encouraging moan.
“You’re wet, baby,” he whispers.
“I was dreaming of you.”
“Yeah? Well, let me make your dream a reality.”
Tucker removes his fingers and flips me over onto my back. I find that he’s already naked too, as if he had been anticipating this moment since before he found me sleeping in the nude. His hot mouth finds my pebbled nipples, and he licks and sucks his way down to my navel, all the while positioning himself between my legs. When I feel the first stroke of his tongue against my clit, I reflexively grasp a handful of his hair and pull him in closer, grinding my sex into his mouth, seeking teeth, rigid tongue, and the roughness of stubble. Yet, before he bestows me with the insanity I crave, he crawls up my body and aligns himself with my entrance.
“You want this, don’t you, baby?” he asks, looming over me.
“Yes.”
“Already so wet and hot.” He wraps a hand around his hard cock and guides the head up and down my slick folds. “Tell me how bad you want me inside you.”
“So bad, Tuck. It hurts. The emptiness aches so much,” I cry.
He relieves just the surface of my suffering by pushing in an inch, just enough for my body to suck in his swollen head. I know he wants to go deeper but he is a master of restraint and order. He’s never lost to passion or imprisoned by lust. He never wants me so badly that he can’t control himself.
“Please,” I beg. But I know it falls on deaf ears. He thinks this is what I seek—the chase. But what I’m begging for has nothing to do with his dick inside me. I want his madness. I want his rage and hysteria. I just don’t think he’s capable of giving it to me. Not when it doesn’t exist.
He watches me as I pant and whine and paw at his chest before giving in to my plea, and filling me to the root. I cry with glee at the first initial jolt of pain. The first stretch of my flesh around his rock-solid cock and the invasion of it stabbing my womb. He pulls out to the tip and thrusts in again, this time even harder.
“Yes,” I moan. “Yes, again. Harder.”
And after a marriage—a life—of order, routine, and restraint, my husband fucks me.
Finally. He’s finally heard me. Maybe last weekend didn’t hurt us like I initially thought. Maybe he just needed to see what I needed. See what I want with him.
I moan louder than I ever have. I tell him how good he’s fucking me, how big he feels inside me, how badly I want to taste his seed all over my tongue and tits. He’s silent, for the most part, with the occasional grunt. He looks as if he’s concentrating, like he’s focused on not coming too soon and ending the moment. I don’t question it. I just want him to keep pounding me into the headboard and keep squeezing my tits hard enough to bruise.
When the feeling goes beyond splendid to the place where ecstasy can’t be defined, I take his hand and wrap his fingers around my throat.
“What are you doing?” He’s still stroking but his rhythm has slowed.
“I want you to choke me when I come for you. I want you to squeeze my neck so hard I see stars. Then fuck me until I black out.”
He stops.
He pulls out of me like my body is fueled by scorpion venom.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, sitting up.
“You want me to . . . ?” He can’t even say it. A grown fucking man pushing forty and he can’t even speak candidly about sex with his wife.
“It’s no big deal, Tuck. Lots of couples enjoy erotic asphyxiation. It heightens the orgasm.” I reach out to pull him back to me, but he retreats even farther.
“Heidi . . . that’s sick. That’s wrong. How can someone like you . . . ?”
“Someone like me?” I scoff. “Someone who has been raped and beaten?”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true! That’s what you think of me, isn’t it? That I’m sick and fucked in the head.”
I climb out of bed, the delicious soreness between my legs forgotten and make my way to the bathroom. Tucker is right on my heels, his penis looking just as sad and pathetic as he does.
“Heidi, that’s not what I’m saying. This . . . thing . . . it’s not healthy. You’re acting out sexually because you refuse to confront what’s really
troubling you. And knowing what I know . . . seeing what he had done to you . . . I can’t perpetuate some violent fantasy that you need to reenact in a quest for control. I can’t do that to you, baby. I love you, don’t you see that? I love you so much, Bunny. I’d rather die than hurt you. Just the thought of inflicting pain on you makes me sick.”
I cross my arms over my bare breasts. “That’s all you think this is. Residual effects from my attack? Is it inflicting pain that makes you sick or the fact that I want it?”
Ignoring my questions, Tucker offers his hand, and musters up a reassuring smile. I ignore both. “Come on, let’s go back to bed. It’s been a long week for both of us. We’re probably just both exhausted and on edge.”
“You’re right. I will. But first, I need you to leave.”
He frowns, dropping his hand. “Leave?”
“Yes. You refuse to fuck me, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to fuck myself. In private.”
Shock slaps him in the face so hard that it turns bright red. I step forward so that he has to step back and don’t stop until his bare feet hit the carpet of the bedroom. Then I slam the door, locking it behind me, before sliding down against it.
I sit on the bathroom floor for forty-five minutes, the sounds of my sobs muffled by the running faucet. By the time I climb into bed, Tucker is already fast asleep, blissfully ignorant to my discontent. Some things never change.
Chapter Fifteen
It’s late when I wake up, but I feel like I haven’t slept in days. My head is weighted with lead, my mouth is lined with wool, and my eyelids have been fused together with Krazy Glue. Still, I know I’m alone without even having to reach out and touch Tucker’s pillow, his body merely a faint, warm memory on the palm of my hand. However, there’s a white notecard, ink-stained with his messy chicken scratch.
Heidi,
Got called in early and didn’t want to wake you.
About last night . . .
I think we should talk.
Dinner tonight?
Just the words last night nearly cause me to break into hives. I can’t forget the look of sheer disgust and horror on Tuck’s face when I asked him to squeeze my throat as I climaxed. He had been so accommodating to what I wanted—thrusting deeper, harder. Touching me in a way that he had never done before. I thought maybe . . . maybe last weekend had changed him. I mean, to let another man sleep with your wife while you watch and pleasure yourself is pretty damn progressive. And it’s not like he just let it happen. He wanted it. Just as much as I did. Maybe even more.
And the things he was saying to Ransom . . . the way he was instructing him . . .
“Taste her . . . Taste how fucking good her pussy is.”
“That’s right. Fuck her hard. Harder.”
“Pull her hair.”
“Slap her ass. Again . . . slap it again. This time make it hurt.”
All things I’ve wanted him to do with me. Things he’s refused me at every single turn.
So over the years, I just stopped asking. I stopped fantasizing. Which led to me resenting every fucking gentle caress and tender kiss. That’s what he needed. That’s the only way he could love me—as if I were a fragile, little paper doll. He was afraid he would rip me in two. And I wanted him to do just that.
Break me. Destroy me. Wreck me.
Love me.
Tucker could’ve loved me through all the madness. And I would have known that he cared for me beyond the boundaries of his own inhibitions. Isn’t that what love and sacrifice are all about? Isn’t that marriage? Putting your own selfish needs aside for the happiness of the person you vowed to devote your life to?
Don’t get me wrong—Tucker is an amazing husband. He’s patient, kind, and supportive. He’s a great provider and I know he’d be an incredible father, if we ever cross that bridge. I trust him with my life, and I can go to sleep every night knowing that he is dreaming of me and only me. I don’t have to doubt him or question his love for me. I feel it in his touch, see it reflected in those eyes as blue as the ocean. See it curl around his full lips to shape a smile so warm it could have been carved from the sun.
I know my husband loves me. But when I am forced to stifle who I truly am and what I want—what I need—is love enough? Can I live another ten years like this? Can I spend a lifetime with a man who only chooses to know the part of me that is deemed pretty and decent?
Even after I’ve prepped, primped, and plummeted into the late morning crowd at Starbucks, the same questions still replay in an endless loop of confused frustration. I grab a nonfat frappe and find a vacant stool at the bar that faces the street. It’s busy today, and if anything can get me out of my head long enough to find some perspective, it’s people watching. That’s what I love about New York. Even when you’re by yourself, you’re never really alone.
However, after a good half hour, I still can’t wrap my head around the state of my marriage. I can’t understand Tucker’s motivations for last weekend if we were still going to have a sex life that was about as dry and stale as day-old toast. I mean, he’s a wonderful lover . . . to someone else. There’s nothing wrong with his equipment and his mouth and hands have made my legs shake for days. But it’s not enough to fill the emptiness. Not enough to feel completely satisfied behind the sacred doors of our bedroom.
I fish out my cell phone and stare at it a good thirty seconds before sliding a thumb over the Unlock icon. My finger hovers over a name in my contacts for twice as long before I bite the bullet and press Call.
I told myself I wouldn’t do this—my marital problems are for me to deal with and nobody else. Tucker and I had struggles long before we made the mistake of involving another party. Going down this road could only further complicate things. And how do I know it’s safe? Hell, how do I know I won’t look like a total freak?
Only one way to find out.
“Drake,” that gruff baritone sounds over the receiver.
“Take the bass out of your voice, JD. I’m not calling to bitch you out . . . for now.”
“Surprise, surprise. So . . . what can I do for you, Heidi?”
“I have . . . a few questions. And I need to know that it will stay between you, me, and the phone, or I will fly to Arizona, cut off your balls, and serve them with Riku’s Béarnaise and a side salad. Got it?”
He laughs without so much as a hint of discomfort. To tell you the truth, Justice Drake is probably the only person who can tolerate my silver tongue, so I keep it extra sharp just for him. I think he actually likes it. When people pay you to be a merciless asshole five days a week, maybe it’s nice to be in the hot seat for a change.
“Questions, huh?” I can almost hear the smile in his voice. Can almost imagine those denim blue eyes dancing with intrigue and his lips slinking into a wicked grin. “You have my undivided attention. And my word.”
“Good. Because this . . . this is off the record. So I better not find any notes in your fucking client list. And I damn sure better not find out that it’s the topic of pillow talk with Ally. I swear to you, Drake. I will end you if this gets out.”
Silence stretches for just a beat before he asks, “Are you done?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now talk. It’s my day off and I’m not getting paid for this shit.”
“Fine.” I take a deep breath and mentally count down from ten before looking around to ensure that no one seems overly interested in my conversation. As I suspected, the rest of the café is oblivious. Another perk of the city—we’ve seen and heard it all. No one cares enough to eavesdrop because they’re too busy trying to conceal their own dirty, little secrets. “What do you know about open marriages?”
“A lot. Be more specific.” Not even an inkling of surprise or over-interest.
“I mean, do you think they can work? If both parties can agree to it?”
“They have worked, yes. But I believe that a relationship, namely a marriage that is built on the foundation of monogamy and devotion, can only
survive if the circumstances are right. And the reasons for the arrangement are of a decent nature.”
“What do you mean?”
“To be frank, is this arrangement based off the fact that either you or your husband merely want to fuck other people?”
“No! Of course not. And I’m not even saying that this is about me and my husband.”
“Whatever. I’m not judging. But the fact that I only found out about this husband mere months ago speaks volumes, Heidi. Why the secrecy? Is it because you’re ashamed of him? Or you want to live a life separate from him? Is that your motivation for an open marriage? Because in that case, I say get a divorce.”
“Save the self-righteous psychobabble, Dr. Feel Good. I never hid my marriage from you. It was none of your business. And you’re the one with Magnum P.I. on the payroll. All the dirt you dig up on your clients and you can’t get your thumb outta Allison’s ass long enough to do a quick Google search about my marital status?”
“Huh. Well, what can I say? I’m more interested in the people who pay me. Not the ones who charge me enough to mortgage a small castle.”
“Obviously, I need a raise.”
“You’re getting it now.” He clears his throat and when his voice floats through the phone again, it’s devoid of all humor and cynicism. It’s almost sincere . . . sympathetic. “Heidi, I don’t usually suggest open marriages unless each spouse is completely comfortable of the terms and the reasons behind it. A good reason to go down that road is if one of them are handicapped or medically incapable of providing their wife or husband sexual pleasure. Or if they are merely sexually incompatible, yet very deeply in love. Being a slut isn’t a good reason. Getting tired of the same dick or pussy is not a good reason. If one wants to seek pleasure in others, solely for the purpose of sexual gratification, then they don’t need to be married. Now, I won’t ask you if any of this pertains to you, but I will say . . . be very careful what doors you open in your marriage. Once open, some can never be closed. And you’re allowing just about any and everything to taint the sacredness of your vows.”