Page 54 of Strict Confidence (Rochester Trilogy 2)
He’s written on different parts of me—my arm, my stomach. Drawing letters that spell out secret words. This is the first time he’s written inside me, his fingers stroking over a sensitive place, making me squirm and beg. “Please, please, please.”
“Wait until I’m finished,” he admonishes. “Or you won’t get your reward.”
“What are you writing?”
His fingers work inside, deft and merciless. “Pay attention. You tell me. You have to tell me what it says if you want me to let you come.”
“Nooo,” I moan, moving my hips, restless and hungry.
The message marches forward, letter by letter, an exquisite torture. It drives me closer to climax. I’m nearing the edge, fighting it. My heels dig into the bed as if I can stop the tumble. Then he finishes the last letter with a swirling flourish deep inside.
I come so hard my vision turns as black as his eyes.
Before I can fully recover, he flips me over so I’m face down. My body’s made of liquid, heavy with salt like the ocean, frothy and indistinct at the edges. His hands cover mine as he places them on the headboard. Those same palms on my hips, hauling them back to the angle he wants them. He spreads my thighs. I can’t catch my breath.
“Hold on,” he says.
I expect him to take me then. Brace for it, even.
Instead I’m met with the flat of his tongue along my center. Wet, rough, heat. It’s so different from what I was expecting that I come on his tongue instantly. He groans at the taste. The sound turns off the part of me that was thinking at all anymore.
Then he’s up on his knees behind me. “Hold on, hold on,” he says, and the thick head of him is at my opening.
He doesn’t wait for me to find the right angle or work myself over him.
He takes what he wants.
And what he wants is to be inside me to the point of stretch. To the point of ache. I don’t have time to adjust to him and I don’t want it. He brushes against a spot deep inside that stops my breath, and my next taste of oxygen sends me spiraling out into thoughtless, mindless pleasure.
Before I came here, I would have been embarrassed at the sounds I’m making. Animal whimpers and wordless begging. But it doesn’t matter, because Beau’s a match for me. He grunts in a way that reminds me of moonlit branches and carpets of moss. We aren’t people right now. We’ve been reduced to our primal selves.
“What did you—” My voice breaks on a moan. I have to begin again. To beg for what I didn’t earn, because I came when I wasn’t supposed to. “What did you write before? Inside me?”
His answer is a wordless snarl.
“Please,” I say, breathless. “I want to know.”
“Don’t leave,” he says on a growl. “Don’t ever leave me.”
For a moment I think he’s refusing to tell me, but then I realize, this is the answer. That’s what he wrote inside me, fingers on my swollen, inner skin, making my orgasm.
D O N T E V E R L E A V E M E
I come again, and his natural rhythm starts to break apart like the ocean in the middle of a storm. He fucks me like the waves crash on the beach, one after the other, fast and hard.
They don’t care about upsetting pristine sand.
“This is mine,” Beau says. “This. Is. Mine.”
The raw possession in his voice makes me clench around him again and he curses and then he’s coming too, all of him hot and hard and moving over me like I belong to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jane Mendoza
The interview with Joe Causey was terrible. Horrible. But afterward, with Beau—that was something we both needed. I needed him to be that way. He needed me to be that way. Pliant. Submissive. I gave myself to him with complete and utter trust. He wasn’t gentle with me. He didn’t treat me like porcelain, but then I’m not fine china. I’m forged in fire.
He knew he could be rough with me.
He knew I wouldn’t break.
It’s early when I hear Paige’s footsteps outside my room. The bed feels empty without Beau, but he doesn’t feel as far away as he has. We’ve found a middle ground. We can do this. I push my hair back from my face and swing my legs over the side of the bed just as the doorknob turns.
“Hey,” I tell her. “Are you ready for breakfast?”
She nods, blue eyes bright.
I pull on one of the crewneck sweaters Mateo brought from Nordstrom. It’s meant to be casual. It’s still a million times nicer than most of the dresses I’ve owned in my life. Still new and soft. I think it’ll be this soft even when it’s taken another fifty trips through the wash.
