The Other Man(57)

“Excuse me?” I spat at him.

“I do not excuse you.”

That had me cursing at him.  Loudly and fluently.  Losing my cool.  Completely.

“He’s not the other man,” I snarled.  “You are, and that’s all you’ll ever be.  I don’t know what I was to you, but you were never my man.  That wasn’t what we had.”

One second he was nearly in the hallway, the next he had me pinned to the bed, moving so fast it made my head spin.

“That’s a lie,” he growled into my face.  “And you’re not a liar, Lourdes.  I think you only tried to pull off that one because you’re lying to yourself.”

I tried to buck him off, but that only had him moving his hips, seating himself more securely against me, our bodies flush.  I felt the hard bulge of him growing with every movement, grinding crudely into my pelvis.

And I felt my temper going.  Felt myself losing it.

“You left,” I spat at him, all of my bitterness, every ounce of my ire in those two words.

He shuddered on top of me.  “I didn’t want to.  Can’t you see that I didn’t want to?”

His voice was pleading, and the tone of it was like balm to my rage, calming it instantly, and though my feelings were every bit as volatile, they were no longer as uncomplicated as the wrath I’d been feeling mere moments before.

“You left,” I said again, but the tone had changed completely, so that now I was pleading back at him.

He groaned, a pained noise, and started kissing me.

I let him.  No, not let.  Welcomed.

I sucked at his tongue and didn’t stop him even when I felt his hands between our bodies, freeing his rock hard erection.

It sprang free, slapping into my thigh.  He gave me time to stop him as he reached into his pocket, ripped open a condom, and rolled it on.

I didn’t stop him.  Didn’t even consider it.

His hand guided his tip slowly to my entrance.

God, I’d forgotten how impossibly hard he was.  How big.  How perfect.

That first time, I could have blamed on being on the edge of sleep.  On thinking I was dreaming.

I had no such excuse for this round.

As soon as his hand slipped out from between our bodies, my legs snaked firmly around his hips.

He gripped my hair in both hands, still kissing me as he stabbed into me with one heavy thrust.

He didn’t hold my wrists captive, for once, didn’t bind them.

Left free, my arms curled around his shoulders, clutching him to me.

He slammed our bodies against the bed, over and over, his jeans abrading against my inner thighs as he drilled me deep into the mattress.

At some point his hands left my hair and went down to my hips.  He ripped his mouth away to watch me as he rose up onto his knees.

He grabbed my ass in both hands and lifted me into his possessive thrusts.

My hands, which had been forced from his shoulders, moved to my own body, gripping the sensitive mounds of my breasts into my palms, pushing them together, giving him a hell of a view.

It did not go unappreciated.

He tensed and heaved on top of me, getting close.

The lights in the room were bright, and so my view was unimpeded as I saw him start to lose it, the coldness going, the wildness overtaking his beautiful, broken eyes.

His jaw went slack, gaze boring into mine, taking me with him, dragging me under, straight into the heart of this madness we shared.

If it was up to me, and it wasn’t, I’d have slept after that.

I knew we needed to talk, but it was the middle of the night, and my body had just been exhausted.  Twice.

He wrenched himself out of me, off me, climbing from the bed.

I was already on the edge of sleep when I felt his hands grip my ankles and start to pull.

“Oh no you don’t, honey,” his gravelly voice was a rough croon.  “You don’t get to sleep.  Not tonight.”

He dragged my hips to the edge of the bed, spreading my legs wide.

I listened to the sounds of him putting on another condom.

I still hadn’t opened my eyes, but I wasn’t in the mood to sleep anymore.

“Look at me,” his voice rumbled.

I opened my eyes just in time to watch him push between my thighs.  I scrambled up onto my elbows to see as each thick inch of him disappeared inside of me.

“You’re insatiable,” I told him, voice low and needy.

“Had you forgotten?” he shot back.  “And besides that, it’s been months . . . for me.”  His tone was so dark and accusing that my eyes shot to his face, raking over it, trying to decipher if he’d meant what I thought he had.

But I couldn’t tell from his expression, and he wasn’t elaborating.

He was otherwise occupied.  And so was I.  There was no room in my overtaxed brain to spend on wondering what was in his just then.

He planted his fists on either side of my hips, rocking in and out of me at a jackhammer pace.

I tried to go to sleep again after that round, but he, again, was not having that.

“Get up,” he said, hands on my shoulders, pulling me to sit.  “There’s no time to sleep.  We still need to talk.”

I propped myself up on my hands, looking down at myself.