Breaking Him (Love is War #1)(62)

Gram had given me one of the best suites in the entire mansion, and the bathroom had a garden tub set in a corner with a scenic window. He set my back against the glass, leaned down between my thighs, and went to work.

I gripped my fingers into his hair, head falling back, eyes drifting closed.

His mouth, God, his mouth. It’d been so long.

Pulling me open, his tongue and fingers clamoring inside, he finished me in seconds.

I was still reeling when he rose. He propped a foot up near my hip, gripped both hands into my hair, and pulled my slack mouth within licking distance of his thick tip.

I started to get it then. He wanted to do everything, wanted to have me every way before the night was through.

I knew him well enough to know he’d have his way.

Neither of us was going to get a wink of sleep until he’d gone through his hit list, which was mind boggling and extensive.

He carried me back to bed and laid me down. When he straightened and started to move away, I wondered if I’d been mistaken and he was actually done.

But he was just turning on the lights.

Of course he would. The intrusive bastard wouldn’t let me hide anything from him.

As he moved about, I admired the view. Even the fresh scratches I’d left all over his back. Every inch of him was the benchmark of my personal preference.

I’m so f*cked, I thought, my eyes drifting closed.

But the bastard didn’t let me sleep.

He kept me up until the sun was rising and every inch of my body ached.

“I might let you sleep after this round,” he told me, kissing my shoulder.

He was on my back, groin flush against my ass, my legs spread wide, his clenched fists on the mattress on either side of my head.

I was in exquisite, tantalizing distress, my face in the pillow, mouth opened wide in a silent scream as he rutted hard and deep into my sensitive flesh.

His pace increased as he got close, his thrusts getting almost too rough to bear.

He lifted my face from the pillow with a firm hand in my hair, bending down to kiss as close to my mouth as he could reach, and, buried to the hilt, he emptied himself deep.

He stayed inside of me, hips flexing as he rubbed out every last twitch of his orgasm.

“Jesus,” I groaned, as he pulled out of me with excruciating slowness. It was just too much.

And still he wasn’t done. He kissed his way down my back, pushed my knees up on the bed, and fitted his head underneath me.

I braced myself on my elbows, moving my hips as he ate me out yet again.

My body was still vibrating with pleasure as he flipped me onto my back and straddled me.

“You’re a beast,” I panted, and it wasn’t an insult.

He pinned my wrists above my head, staring solemnly down at me.

A million things were pouring out of his ocean eyes at me.

I didn’t even have to say it aloud. We stared at each other and thought the words, a silent conversation with nothing but our starving, devouring eyes.

It doesn’t matter what’s happened tonight. It doesn’t matter that we mourned together, and made ourselves and each other feel better for one bittersweet night.

I can’t forgive you. I can’t and won’t trust you again. You betrayed me and it can never be made right again.

Also, I can’t forgive myself. The things I did to hurt you, to survive after you left, and of course, the things I did to take revenge for the things you did, have damaged me beyond all repair.

But we didn’t say one word out loud. Finally he bent down and kissed me, and it was so soft and so tender as to be devoid of passion.

It held something else, something even more dangerous. A thing I was afraid to even think.

He pulled back with a gasp and started panting like he’d been underwater.

After that, he let me sleep.





CHAPTER





THIRTY





“If two wrongs don't make a right, try three.”

~Laurence J. Peter





I woke up to a steady knocking on my bedroom door.

I cast one bleary-eyed look at Dante, who appeared so deeply asleep as to be unconscious.

“What?” I called out, and even then he didn’t twitch. He’d always been a sound sleeper.

He slept like a guiltless baby, the bastard.

No answer. Just more knocking, and still more, going and going in a precise, continuous rap. Not hard, not soft, not fast, not slow, just steady and determined.

Whoever it was seemed to have no intention of leaving until I answered that door.

But the thing was, I really didn’t want to. There was a limited number of people it could be, and not one of them I wanted to see this early. Or ever.

I wasn’t even dwelling on what they’d discover when I opened that door. It was bad enough that I knew what I’d succumbed to in the dark, lonely hours of the night. I certainly wasn’t thrilled with the notion of anyone else discovering it, but there was no way we could hide it.

First of all, we were both naked. Dante didn’t even have a sheet to cover him. He was sprawled out on his back, exposed to the air, sleeping the sleep of someone utterly capable of trust, which was ironic since he’d been the one to rob me of mine. The Bastard.

Second, the room reeked of sex. I reeked of sex. I’d lost count of the things we’d done over and through the long hours of the night, and the evidence was everywhere, most particularly inside of and all over my well-used body.