Rough Edge (The Edge #1)(25)

She saw me hesitate. “What are you doing?”

Holding her arms together behind her back, I kicked her legs wide open. “Say stop if you want me to.”

“I just want to know.”

I slapped her ass. She yelped.

I expected the whirlwind with the shredding of another boundary, but it didn’t show.

Gripping her arms hard, I hit her bottom hard enough to leave a red mark. “Where do you want me to fuck you?”

“My pussy.”

Slap. And again, harder. She yelled again, wiggling.

“Here’s a hint.” Four fingers gathered moisture, circling her cunt. She rotated with me. “It’s not this.”

Three fingers in her ass. She tightened down.

The Thing was in deep distress. It felt so good to beat it, but there was no whirlwind. I needed it. I didn’t know what it did or why it was important, but without the second of spinning confusion, the Thing wouldn’t hide completely.

I took her by the throat. The winds appeared and waited, like gods called by an offering.

“Beg,” I demanded.

“Fuck my ass, Caden. Take it.”

I tightened my grip on her neck. “You want four fingers in your ass?”

“Please! Please put your cock in my ass.”

“Good girl.”

I took her cunt instead.

She made a sound between a gasp and a grunt.

Letting her arms go, I pulled the lube from the night table drawer and let it fall from her back to her crack as I fucked her.

“You want to come?”

“Yes.”

“Later.” I pulled out and slid the head of my cock along her ass.

She was nervous. I didn’t want her to be nervous, but the whirlwind spun into my perception, whispering promises.

“Breathe.”

She nodded.

“Inhale,” I continued.

She did. I watched the four-inch scar on her chest rise to expand with the air, and on the exhale, I slid inside her, watching her pucker expand into an O around the head. Maneuvering myself deeper, I stretched her into a tight ring around my shaft. Her face contorted in pain.

I stopped.

The Thing was still there, confused, using my love as a vulnerability.

The centrifuge slowed, waiting.

I pulled out and turned her over, pulling her knees up. She exposed herself willingly, and the love I’d been hiding was nearly crushed by the spinning in my mind.

She pulled her cheeks apart, mouthing, “Fuck me.”

That was it. I didn’t need to be told twice, but I needed to take more than was offered. Mercilessly, I took her ass with every inch, burying myself in her.

She closed her eyes.

“Beg or say stop,” I said.

“Please. Take it.”

I put her hand between her legs. She circled her clit. I slid all the way in, burying myself in her. Wrapping my arm around her, I put my weight on the base of her throat, just above her sternum, until she was immobile.

I spun, a slave to my sickness, flipping from the man I was to the man I am.

To ring that throat.

To hold her high.

To own her completely.

I lost it. In a swirl of me, her, my love, my control, and the Thing I couldn’t name, screaming out and away.





Chapter Twelve





Greyson





I had bruises on my left wrist where he’d held me down. He had been more gentle with the right side, which had never really recovered from the break I got in basic training, but the left took what was left over. I couldn’t let patients see it.

The first time he fucked me with brutality, we didn’t talk about it. I woke up thinking he’d been half asleep and it wouldn’t occur again. Three weeks after that, he’d done it again, pushing me harder, demanding more, taking me to the edge over and over.

Last night, two weeks after the last time, he did it again. He’d fucked me in the ass, in the shower afterward, on the floor. He’d been rough, and the rougher he got, the more I came.

I wanted him to push me hard. I liked it. But this was slipping out of control.

There’s a name for this.

It was spring. Long sleeves would be too hot, and the AC in the office was spotty. I rummaged in my drawer and found a loose coil of bracelets. I slid them over my bruised left wrist. That would have to do.

I checked myself in the mirror. I looked fine. No one could see the bruises or the soreness between my legs. No one could see the aches or the pleasant, peaceful satisfaction. Looking at me, you’d never know I’d had my fourth orgasm of the night with my husband’s massive cock buried in my throat and four of his fingers inside me.

Masochist.

The word shot through my mind, and for the first time, I let it. I mouthed it in the mirror.

Masochist.

“Where are you off to today?” he asked from the bathroom doorway, arms crossed over his bare chest. His pajama bottoms hung low on his hips, the waistband cutting across the V-shaped indent of his pelvis.

“Collecting data for the Tina thing.” I leaned over the vanity and put on lipstick.

“Are you okay? From last night?”

“Uh-huh. Are you?” I snapped the tube closed.

“Yeah.” His nod was serious. It was not an enthusiastic agreement as much as a simple affirmative.