Page 14 of Heavy Equipment
“I’ll make you dirty,” he says, his voice low like this is a solemn promise. “I’ll make you fucking dirty on the bathroom floor. Make you come so hard you don’t know your name, but when we’re done you’re coming home with me. You got that? You’re mine.”
Mine. I should tell him no. I should fight him, but I don’t want to win that battle.
I want to lose.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Triumph lights his eyes, and he lifts me up. Something blunt nudges at my sex. That’s the only warning I get before he thrusts inside me. His hands are firm across my ass, thrusting me forward and back, impaling me on his length. It’s too much. Too fast. The only thing I can do is throw my arms around his shoulders and hold on. I press my face into his neck, breathing in the salt-sweat scent of him.
“Again,” he demands, his muscles straining. He’s in the middle of his own earthquake.
“I’m yours,” I say, made breathless by his thrusts. And then louder.
“Again. Fucking again. Fucking forever.”
“Yours.”
It’s too soon for me to come again. My body is pliant and sated, only here to help Asher come. That’s what I think until he changes the angle. His cock jabs at some place inside me, insistent, almost painful, and then my legs start to shake. “Wait, wait, wait,” I cry, but that only makes him do it faster.
“Come,” he mutters, his face pressed into my neck. “Fucking milk me. I want to feel you come around me, want you to gush on my dick. Want to feel it dripping down my balls. Fucking do it.”
The words are hard and coarse, and that’s what makes me climax. My whole body clenches down, giving him exactly what he wanted, an impossible squeeze, the spill of arousal. His roar bounces off the tile. He grasps me against his body, hard enough to leave ten finger-shaped bruises on my ass.
We pant in the aftermath, me clinging to him, him holding me back.
“Again,” he says, his voice almost slurred.
I turn my face against his, loving the way his bristle scratches my cheek. “Yours.”
His lids are heavy, eyes flashing black. “I’ve been waiting for you, June Li.”
A shiver runs through me. The good daughter wasn’t only obedient. She was also kept guarded. It was a way of keeping myself alone. Until him. He climbed the tower.
He carried me down.
I drop my hand down his broad chest, and there in the ripple of muscle, in the coarse hair, over the flat of his male nipples, I write my own four letters. MINE.
Asher Cook is hard and crude and dirty. I’ve spent my whole life locked away. I’ve been waiting for you, he said, but I think I’ve been waiting for him, too. He’s the only man who’s ever seen through the cable knit sweaters and plaid slacks. The only man with the determination to peel away my layers to the surrender underneath.
His broad chest rises and falls in even breath, a blank canvas for what comes next. A dark gaze meets mine. So still and so patient. So determined it makes me shiver, because he fills his life with beautiful things. A Tudor house with ivy climbing the side.
A painting of cherry blossoms in full bloom.
And me, because I belong to him now.
I’m his, and he’s mine.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The blooms may be delicate, but cherry blossom trees are strong. The oldest tree is 2,000 years old, with a trunk perimeter over forty feet.
It becomes a regular thing—the way he takes me to his worksites. The way he corners me in a bathroom or a storage closet and has his dirty way with me.
The way I surrender to his every demand.
He makes the most money on his massive development contracts, skyscrapers and shopping centers and monolithic parking garages. Modern lines and materials. His heart belongs to the restoration projects, such as the theater with a rather illicit past.
He pulls into a wide cobblestone drive and past the fountain with a beautiful sculpture. Then to the back, where a couple of black SUVs are parked. A man leans against the side, his muscles bulging in a black T-shirt, black cargo pants molded to his legs, one booted foot crossed over the other. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s dangerous.
Asher insists that I wait for him to open my door, a sort of old-world chivalry at odds with the filthy way he treats me when we’re alone. He introduces me to the man as his fiancée, pausing to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of my neck. My cheeks heat at the intimate gesture in front of a stranger.
“Blue Eastman,” he says, his cerulean eyes alight with amusement.
“Do you own the Grand?” I ask, curious about the place that has been the subject of intense rumors. In its heyday it was one of the largest theaters in the South, hosting orchestras and operas of international renown. Its owners went bankrupt during the depression, leaving the building abandoned. It was then made into a glittering strip club, a dark and glamorous place.
