Tryst

  It’s all I need—those nails biting into my skin, tightening, creating pressure to my carotid arteries so that my brain is denied of precious oxygen. Getting me drunk off carbon monoxide and the sheer eroticism of being fucked until I’m light-headed. His other hand abandons my shoulder and dips to my clit where he rubs the tiny bud that kisses his dick with every stroke. He’s growing for me, swelling, and I tighten around him in response, daring him to do the same. Challenging him to rip me apart and dirty me just a little bit more.

  My frantic eyes wide with bliss and lack of air, I’m soundless as the first surge of orgasm overtakes me. I ride it out in rough waves, falling deeper and deeper into black water. I shake violently, unable to control the spasms that roll through my body like thunder. I can breathe now, Tucker’s grip completely loosened, yet climax still squeezes my lungs, wringing out every drop of arousal from my body like a wet cloth. I’ve never come like this before. Never experienced anything like this before. And I did it with the one person I thought would never bring me to this place—my husband.

  He collapses on top of me and I wrap my arms around his sweat slickened back, the need to comfort and nurture him almost overwhelming. It’s as if he’s awakened this . . . vulnerability in me. Yet, it’s not borne of weakness. It’s freedom and strength. It’s the irrevocable feeling of unconditional love and acceptance.

  Ragged with exhaustion and ecstasy, my head lolls to one side with no bones or joints to support it. I smile lazily, basking in the feeling of being completely blissed out, and allow my eyes to focus, realizing in the haze of afterglow that we’ve done it. We’ve done the unthinkable. And it was everything that I could have asked for and more.

  That’s when the oily, black serpent sinks his fangs into my flushed skin, penetrating tendon and arteries. Infecting me with its ugly doubt and shame.

  I only see him for a moment before he turns and stalks away. But that’s all I need; a glimpse of the dark pain that paints Ransom’s handsome face, leaving a smeared trail of dejection behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I wake up sated and splendidly sore when my cell rings early the next morning. It’s Tamara (who still can’t calculate the time difference) with my daily update, giving me the scoop on all my clients and events in the city. Being this far from home has been difficult, but not impossible. Thanks to the internet and a strong cell signal, I can do my job anywhere. And as long as my clients stay out of the proverbial kitchen, no one has to get burned. Also, my two most controversial, i.e. difficult, clients are merely yards away. Which has proven to be just as much of a curse as a gift.

  I look at my sleeping husband, flat on his stomach, his teddy bear brown hair falling over his forehead. I smooth back the waves that tickle his brow and muster a smile. He was amazing last night. So amazing that we came back to our room and went at it again, licking and sucking each other to another earth shattering orgasm. Of course, I struggled to live in the moment and just focus on Tucker and what his tongue and fingers were doing to my body. I’d give myself over to pleasure, only to be jolted back to reality when the look on Ransom’s face would pop into my mind. I hurt him—I know I did. But I don’t see how there was any way to avoid it. Tucker is my husband . . . will always be my husband. And there’s no way Ransom can expect me not to make love to my husband.

  I pull myself out of bed much sooner than I should and stretch my stiff, sore limbs before jumping in the shower. When I step out, it takes me a full five minutes to decide what I should put on. I look at my tiny, white bikini, still completely untouched with the tags still dangling from it. I’ve been here for a week and still haven’t gone for a swim in the beautiful infinity pool, or even taken a dip in the more private turquoise lagoon, partitioned by blue palo verde and palm trees. I rip off my towel and grab the bathing suit. It’s still early enough that it should be pretty empty, plus after last night most people are probably sleeping in or going for another round. But with the bright morning sun streaming through the curtains, and the smell of fresh, desert air, I can’t find a good reason to spend another second inside.

  I lift my face to the heavens as I greet the cloudless blue sky and the warmest, most brilliant sunlight I’ve ever felt. The only signs of human life are Oasis staff, preparing the day for lots of sunbathing, noshing, and sipping. Ordinarily, I would roll my eyes at those couples lazing around the pool in their designer swimwear and shades, but for some reason, I want to join them. I want to stretch out in an oversize lounger made for two and eat fresh cut papaya and drink ridiculous libations from a hallowed out pineapple.

  Overnight, I had become one of those people. The sexually liberated. And even though it was just a one-on-one experience for Tucker and me, which would probably be deemed tame compared to theirs, when we looked up from the fog of orgasm, we realized that we were being watched. Yet, there wasn’t an inkling of judgment or disdain etched in their faces. There was admiration, awe, and definitely arousal. At least that was the case for mostly everyone. For Ransom? Not so much.

  I assumed he had stormed off to his room after watching Tucker and me, so overwhelmed with hurt and disgust. I couldn’t go after him—seriously, how ridiculous would it look if I ran after him ass naked?—and I couldn’t fully express my regret to Tucker. We had turned a page, the one that had been holding us back from completing our story. I needed to stay in this moment with him, no matter how badly I wanted to make things right with Ransom. This was our chance to make things better. I had to take it. Any good wife would agree.

  So here I am, the morning after. I had not only survived Justice’s playground, I had thrived. And maybe this was exactly what I needed to solidify my love for Tucker. Maybe I was only weak for Ransom because my marriage was weak. And now that we had found the key to our bedroom ills, maybe we could cure everything else that was wrong with us. Whatever that is.

  After sitting out for ten minutes, the Arizona summer sun, aka hell’s tanning bed, had become unbearable. I decide to roam over to the shaded lagoon situated behind the pool bar and a row of cabanas. I’d seen it before, obviously, but I had never actually been there. So checking out one of the most romantic spots on the property alone seemed a little sad, yet cathartic.

  I step through a barrier of trees and my eyes find incredible beauty in that small space. Shimmering teal waters, limestone boulders strategically placed to create a magnificent series of natural fountains, and a sculpted, sun-kissed back slick with water.

  I suck in a surprised breath when I see him, drawing his attention, and Ransom turns around, revealing a bare, chiseled chest that I had seen just days ago. He looks at me with the same shock I stare at him with, yet his expression quickly morphs into contempt. He snorts and cuts his eyes at me, just before turning back around to rest his elbows on the edge of the pool. I stand there, shocked at his demeanor. Just days ago, he was begging me not to leave, not to turn my back on him completely and shut him out. Now it seems the tables have turned.

  “Can I help you?” he snaps without looking at me. The tone of his voice is so cold even the desert palms shiver.

  “Ransom . . .”

  I’m not sure what I should say. I’m sorry? Nope. What would I be sorry about? Sleeping with my husband? Trying to fix our intimacy issues in hopes that it would be enough to fix us? Yet, to shrug and tell him to get over it would seem callous. I’m a bitch when I need to be, not because I enjoy hurting people. And I’m not a liar. At least when I can help it.

  “You knew we’d be there. You knew I wanted to repair my marriage. That was my intention all along.”

  “Right. Your intention,” he sneers, looking over his shoulder. “Was it your intention when I was inside you? When you were damn near begging me to take you every time we were alone? Or how about the other night? What were your intentions when you had your pussy in my face, so fucking wet that there’s still a damp spot on the fucking chair? Were you thinking of Tucker then? Was that to save your marriage?”

  Each ac
cusation is like a blow to my gut, but I recover without so much as a flinch. I won’t let him rattle me. I won’t give this asshole the satisfaction of affecting me. That’s exactly what he wants. Instead, I drop the towel and the paperback I was holding, and march over to him, head held high and back straight. Although I feel about two feet tall right now.

  Ransom peers up at me from his place in the pool, his expression a mixture of fury and boredom. Before he can spew one more insult, I let his ass have it.

  “What’d you think, Ransom? That this was about you? It was never about you. You were fun to play with, yes, but that’s it. We had fun. But what else could you expect me to want from you? A relationship? A life? You’re a good lay, Ransom, and a great musician. But that’s it. Stick to what you know and leave the marriage shit to the grownups.”

  The lie lingers on my lips, swollen with the stinging remnants of my words. I know they’re harsh, but they don’t even seem to crack his stoic exterior. Instead, he just continues to look up at me, hands on my hips, my mouth a tight slash. All of that, yet no response. It’s unnerving.

  I start to turn away, when I feel his arms under my knees, squeezing. Then I’m airborne for a fleeting second before being plunged into cool waters headfirst. I thrash and fight, gulping down a gallon of water before I realize what’s happened. When I finally break through to the surface after what seems like the battle of my life, I hear him chuckling, yet I can’t see him through the wet hair and water in my eyes.

  “You son of a bitch!” I sputter through violent coughs. “How dare you! How fucking dare you!”

  I still hear him chuckling just inches from me, and I claw at the air in front of me, hoping to connect with his skin. My nails rake across what feels like the hard mound of his bicep, yet he keeps laughing, the dark timbre of his voice both infuriating and disturbing me. When I’m finally on two feet and my sopping wet hair is out of my eyes, I glare at him with pure concentrated malice in my steel gray eyes.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are? You don’t get to touch me. You don’t ever get to fucking touch me!”

  “Relax, H. It’s water. It won’t hurt you.” He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms in front of his chest. That’s when I see angry bright red scratches lanced in his arm. I drew blood. I made him hurt for me just as he’s made me bleed for him. And now . . . I want to do it more. I want him to ache. I want him to suffer. Just make him feel an ounce of the torment I feel inside. I launch myself at him, pounding his chest, scratching at him like a wild animal. Fighting this demon inside me that makes me want him, even though I have everything.

  “I don’t care! You can’t do this! You can’t just throw me around. You can’t just put your hands on me whenever you want to. You can’t have me! I am not yours! Understand? I am not yours to touch!”

  I know I’m not making any sense, but it feels good to scream. The freedom of letting go, of purging myself of this affliction for him, is therapeutic.

  He grips my wrists, yet I still thrash with elbows and knees and teeth. I fight him for making me feel for him. For making me feel less for my husband. For making me realize that there is something sick and twisted inside me that is wrong, and will always be wrong. And making me accept my disease because there are people like him in this world that are wrong too. Because even though Tucker has tried his damnedest to appease me, to feed my wrongness, I’ll always know that he is only pretending for me because he loves me. And Ransom . . . Ransom is wrong without even trying. And that is so right for me.

  I don’t realize I have collapsed into his chest until he wraps his arms around my trembling frame. I try to pull away but I’m too exhausted to fight him anymore—to fight this. Sweat, tears, and water streak down my face, creating a salty, slippery salve between us.

  “I hate myself,” I sob. “I hate myself for wanting you. And I hate him for letting me.”

  Big, callused hands on my neck, my shoulders, my back. Lips in my hair, my temple. I feel him shake his head as he holds me tighter.

  “Don’t hate yourself. And don’t hate him. Hate me, H. Hate me for wanting you just as badly.”

  I push away from him, my palms over his nipples, but he keeps his fingers locked around my waist. Looking up at him with contempt and desire battling for my next breath, I tell him the truth. I tell him what I don’t really mean. “I already do.”

  “Then show me,” he whispers, stepping in closer. “Show me how much you hate me. Loathe me. Despise me. Detest me. But don’t reject me. Don’t push me away because you think I can’t take it. Because I want it, H. I want that beautiful violence. I want you to scratch and kick and scream. Because you know what’s on the other side of that madness?”

  “Don’t say it.” I shake my head frantically, refusing to hear it. “Don’t fucking say it.”

  “Passion. Obsession.” He pulls me in closer so that my hands are sandwiched between our chests. “Love.”

  It happens so quickly—his arms around me lifting me up, my legs wrapping around his waist, and our mouths fused together, drinking in every drop of each other’s daring desire. I’m in peril with his arms wound around me so tightly that I can only breathe through him, his lungs sustaining mine. With his rock hard length pressing into me through the thin fabric of our bathing suits, I might as well sacrifice myself to him now, lay my head down on the chopping block, and let him end me. I’m helpless to him—utterly defenseless against this chest that was cut from smooth marble and these lips that have whispered the most erotically beautiful lyrics ever conceived.

  He rips my bikini top away just as he presses me up against the pool wall. We’ve somehow moved to the shallow area adorned with huge boulders that sift water through cracks and manmade spigots. Under the cool spray, deep into this cradle of limestone and granite, we’ve found our oasis. It’s not the striptease classes or the erotic yoga. It’s not even the den of iniquity. It’s just us, unabashedly honest in our skin.

  My back rakes against the rough stones as Ransom grinds his pelvis into mine. My elbows are on his shoulders and my fingers are knotted in his hair. I bite his bottom lip, tasting salt and iron, and he digs his fingertips deep into my ass, breaking the skin. We groan together, sharing this pain, relishing this pleasure. He spreads my cheeks wider and slides his hands under my bathing suit bottom until his fingers meet my seam. I shudder at the feel of him there, in that place that Tucker has never touched. In the place I touch myself when I get off alone. He places the very tip of his finger against the pucker and presses gently, waiting for me to squirm and tighten in refusal. I gasp inside his mouth, telling him I won’t say no. That word doesn’t even exist in my vocabulary right now.

  Ransom thrusts against the thin nylon covering my pussy, aligning his steel length with my swell. “You want me to fuck you here?” he whispers against my lips. His finger presses me from behind, and he slowly inserts the tip. “And here?”

  Emboldened by his candor, and the image of him filling me from both ends, I nod my head feverishly. “Yes. Please.”

  Without removing his finger, he pulls at the ties on each side of my bikini bottoms while I fumble with the drawstring of his shorts. I reach under the waistband and wrap my hand around his thick, hard cock, pulling it between us. It throbs against my belly, the silken skin stretched tight around its impressive size. I stroke it against me, loving his little jerks and twitches. I imagine how it would feel in my mouth. How he would taste when the first drops of pre-release would bead at the head. How hot his seed would be sliding down my throat.

  “I want to taste you,” I tell him, as we both watch the way his dick pulses with its own heartbeat.

  “I want you to. But you’d drown in here.”

  We share a chuckle that’s quickly cut off when Ransom sinks his tongue into my mouth. He kisses me hungrily, fucks my mouth just as he told Tucker to do. But his fucking feels different. It’s hard, desperate, deep. Unapologetic, just like the rest of him. His finger still lodged inside me starts to move jus
t a fraction. It’s slight, almost nonexistent, but with my tightness and the friction of the water, even that tiny movement has me groaning. I stay completely still, fighting the urge to slide back and devour that finger, but I know it’d be too much too soon. Ransom knows what he’s doing, and while I may not fully trust him with my heart, I know I can trust him with my body.

  He slips his finger in deeper, just past the nail, and slowly thrusts in and out. My whole body shakes with the feeling and I grip him tighter in my palm in response. We stay like that for what seems like forever—him fingering my puckered tightness deeper, stretching me to take him, and me fisting his cock against my belly.

  When he gets his finger in past the knuckle, he shifts, bending at the knees while still holding me up, and thrusts inside me. I cry out in uncontained madness, overwhelmed with the feeling of him fucking me from every angle. Even his tongue keeps in time with the rhythm of his strokes.

  The first time with Ransom, I wasn’t allowed to feel. My body felt him—adored him—but I had to keep it superficial. At least that’s what I was supposed to do. But now . . . now I have no other choice but to feel him everywhere—inside me, outside me, throughout me. He sexes my whole being—mind, body, and soul. There is no part of me that is left untouched or unfilled.

  My insides quiver when the pressure from behind increases. It burns for a second as my body accepts a second finger, but it isn’t unpleasant. Actually, it feels good. Spectacular. Like Ransom’s cock is everywhere at once. Filling every empty hallow, even the ones he can’t see.

  Scalding heat consumes my belly as my womb erupts with the first devastating orgasm. I cry against his lips, biting his tongue hard enough to taste his blood once again. He answers my violence by fucking me impossibly hard before pulling out of my body. I whimper at the loss of fullness, but before I can protest, he’s filling me again, this time in the place where his fingers were just buried to the knuckle.