Being Me (Inside Out #2)(93)

His fingers curl around my neck and he stares down at me, searching my face with such intensity, it feels as if he’s seeing straight to my soul. And I welcome it. I welcome him. Seconds tick by, and I have no idea what he sees or doesn’t see in me, but he drags my mouth to his and kisses me.

The silky hot stroke of his tongue is a shot of adrenaline and desire that spikes through my body and creates a tingling sensation from head to toe. I shudder with pleasure and drink him in, tasting the bittersweet hunger in him, the anger and torment. I burn to touch him beyond where my fingers rest on his chest, to feel hard muscle flex beneath my fingers.

But control is his outlet of choice when there is no whip, no pain. And I am no longer angry, no longer rebelling against his demands. No longer fighting his need for an outlet I have long ached for him to know he has with me, in me.

I tremble with the caress of his hand over my waist, traveling to my hip, and curving around my backside to firmly pull me hard against his thick erection. His palm skims upward to the small of my back and flattens, molding me even closer. I moan into his mouth and he groans in response, his tongue delving deeply, hot with growing demand, with a palpable urgency. And his hands are everywhere, touching me, stroking me, caressing me, driving me wild. Before I know what’s happening, he’s shoving my jeans down my legs. I blink and my boots are gone, and I’m half-naked in an elevator with the doors locked open.

He turns me to the wall and his hands slide, slow and firm, possessively down my waist and over my hips. Feeling his gaze rake over my body, I am wet and weak in the knees. He cups my cheeks from behind and steps forward, pressing his lips to my ear. “Tonight I want to spank you, but I won’t. Not when it would be punishment. I won’t ever do that to you. But don’t think that means I won’t want to.”

I understand him. I don’t know how or why, but deep in our souls, we connect, and I know what he is doing. He’s showing me a hard exterior, but all I see is vulnerability, a need that tonight has sparked: to show me a darker, more dangerous side of himself and have me not run for cover.

“You can’t scare me away,” I tell him, “so throw all the words you want at me. I’m still here. I’m still not going anywhere. And in case you forgot, I liked it when you spanked me.”

His hand finds my stomach and then presses deeper between my legs, until his fingers tease my clit. “Maybe this time I’ll tie you up and flog you.”

“Do it.” His fingers stroke into the silky wet V of my body, and I am panting, barely able to speak, but I somehow finish my challenge. “The more you push me, the more I push back.”

He nips my earlobe and I can feel him unzipping his pants. “So you say,” he murmurs.

“So I know.” Throwing caution to the wind, I press on, trying to unleash the pent-up energy that he always bottles until it explodes. “Only one of us is running. Only one of us is afraid of what I have yet to discover.”

The air crackles and his hand goes to my waist, fingers flexing into my flesh, and I revel in knowing I’ve succeeded in taking him to the edge.

“You think I’m running?” he demands.

“No. I think you’re trying to make me run so you can blame me if we fail.”

His cock presses between my legs. “Does that feel like I want you to run?” He drives hard inside me without any prelude. “Does that?” And then he is thrusting, reaching around me to meld his hand to my breast, holding onto me. He thrusts again, burying himself with a fieriness that outreaches pure physical need.

Oh yes, I have made him angry, and I am glad. I want this side of him—I want all of him. And damn it, he just keeps trying to deny me. He keeps trying to hold back, and keeps trying to make me run.

I press my hand to his on my breast, holding him there and wanting to never let go. Pleasure splinters through me with each thrust of his cock, each moment he’s buried deep inside me. Sensation after sensation begins in my sex and rushes through all my nerve endings. I am lost in how he feels, how I feel, and I arch into him. My muscles clench around him, and then I can’t breathe—my orgasm takes me by surprise, enveloping me, consuming me. I rise to the top of it far too quickly and come down far too hard and fast, but just in time to feel him shudder, his body tensing with his release. He stills, burying his face in my neck, and his body slowly relaxes. For several moments he holds me there, and I’m not sure either of us breathes. I’m not sure what to say or what to do next.

Abruptly, he pulls out of me, and an unusual sense of utter emptiness washes over me. As I start to turn, he’s already headed out of the elevator. I stare after him, knots tightening in my stomach.

Maybe I pushed the wrong buttons.

Maybe I pushed him too far or too hard.

Maybe I made a mistake.