Being Me (Inside Out #2)(53)

I’m surprised when he enters ahead of me when he would normally follow me inside. I shut the door behind us in time to see him pound the wall and then press his fists against the surface. His head drops between his shoulders and I can see the long, lithe muscles rippling through his body.

I close the distance between us and reach for him. “Don’t,” he commands sharply, stilling my hand in action, his voice gravelly, rough. “I’m not in a good place.”

“Be there with me, Chris. Let me help.”

The depth of despair in his eyes seems to tunnel straight into hell. “This part of me is why I warned you away.”

“It didn’t work then and it’s not working now.”

He grabs me and puts me between the wall and him. “This is when I’d—”

“I know,” I interrupt. “This is one of those times you need pain to replace pain. I understand it, after what I saw these past twenty-four hours. But if we’re going to make it, Chris, you have to find a way to go there with me.”

‘There’s nothing gentle in me while I’m like this. You don’t want who I am right now.”

“I want every part of you, Chris.”

For several seconds, he stares at me, and then suddenly his fingers twine into my hair and he’s kissing me. His anger and pain bleed into my mouth, searing me in their intensity. My hands go to his chest and he shackles them with one of his. “Don’t touch me. Not until I’m past this.”

“Okay.” Somehow I manage to sound strong when I’m shaken by just how out of himself he truly is.

“Undress,” he orders. “I don’t trust myself to do it.”

I have no idea what he means by that, but he steps back from me and tugs his shirt over his head. I pull my own tee off, along with my bra, and I reach for my pants but struggle as my hand is trembling uncontrollably.

Chris is in front of me in an instant, holding my wrist. “Damn it, I knew this was a mistake. I’m scaring you.”

“You don’t scare me, Chris. You hurt, so I hurt.”

A thunderstorm of emotions crosses his face and he drops his forehead to mine like he did on the plane. His breathing is ragged and he’s obviously battling to rein in whatever he’s feeling.

It is nearly impossible to resist the powerful urge to touch him. “Stop trying to control it, Chris. Just let it out. I can handle it.”

“I can’t.”

He steps back from me and shocks me by walking toward the bathroom. I blink after him. He can’t? What does that even mean? I hear the shower come on and I try to stay where I am because he obviously wants space, but I can’t. I ignore the fact that my nudity isn’t the best confrontational attire, but then he’s not exactly dressed himself.

I charge to the open bathroom door and enter as he steps inside the see-through glass-encased shower. I keep walking and I open the shower. “You can’t?” I challenge. “What does that even mean? You can’t be with me? Do you want me to leave?”

He leans out of the shower and kisses me. “It means I can’t, and won’t, do anything I think will make you want to leave.” He strokes a wet thumb over my cheek. “And right now, I will.”

But the edge of his mood has shifted in that rocket-swift way it does. He is not who he was just a few minutes ago. I dare to step into the shower and hug him, the spray of warm water enveloping me, and to my relief his arms do as well. I feel the hard length of his cock expanding, thickening, and I am further encouraged until I blink up at him and see the barely banked storm. He’s not as okay as I thought. Not even close. He says sex isn’t a part of how he deals with his pain, but he’s aroused, and I can’t hurt him. I won’t hurt him. I have only pleasure to offer him.

I press him against the wall, out of the beating force of the water, and he lets me. Taking that as a good sign, I slowly slide down his body and drop to my knees. His soft intake of breath is further encouragement I welcome. I brush wet hair from my mouth and wrap my hand around his pulsing shaft. I don’t tease him. He needs hard and fast, a release, relief. I think. I hope. I suckle the soft skin of his taut erection into my mouth and the salty taste of his arousal teases my tongue. Without lingering, I take all of him I can and his hand comes down on my head.

“Harder,” he orders, his voice a gruff command, his hips arching into the suckle of my mouth, and I can feel him throbbing against my tongue.

My gaze lifts, and I watch him watching me, the grit of his teeth, the tightness of his jaw, the lust and fury, in his hot stare. It’s arousing to have this powerful, sexy man respond to me, want me, need me. And he does. I have never been as sure of this as I am now.

My fingers tighten around him and I draw on him with more force, taking him deeper. He pumps against me, driving to the back of my throat, f*cking my mouth, and his desire is a living, breathing thing that possesses me. I can’t get enough of it, of him. My tongue slides down the pulsing underside of his cock, and he moans, deep and guttural. His head falls back against the tiles and I feel him slip into mindless oblivion.

My body burns from the taste of him, the feel of him against my tongue, with the power I have to take him away from his pain. I wrap my hand around his thigh for leverage, the tension there telling me how close he is to release.

“Good, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low, husky. Sexy. “So good.” His hand tightens on my head and urgency surges through him into me. He begins to pump harder, pushing his cock deeper into my throat and I take him, I take him, hungering for the moment that arrives with a hoarse moan sliding from his lips. His shaft spasms in my mouth and I taste his salty release seeping into my taste buds, where his anger had bled not long before. I drag my tongue and lips up and down him, slowly easing him to completion.