Denial (Careless Whispers #1)(52)

I’m not sure who moves first, but our foreheads come together and we stay like that, just breathing together, every second driving the anticipation of what will come next. I cup his face and I know whatever was said to him downstairs affects him. “I don’t know what happened between you and Gallo, but you aren’t to blame for what’s happening to Giada.”

He leans back to look at me, and there are no shadows, no matter how deep or dark, that could hide the shame in his eyes. “This is my chapter of The Underground. I run it, as Kevin did before me. I am responsible for every person beneath me. I let her father take that job.”

“Did you believe he was in danger when you did, any more than you do with any other job?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Then you are not to blame.”

He sets me on top of the table, scooting his chair closer to me, and his head drops in front of me, blocking his emotions from my sight. “There are things you don’t know or understand.”

My fingers slide into his hair. “Make me understand.”

He looks at me. “I don’t want you to understand. Not now. Not ever.” He drags me onto his lap, my legs on either side of his hips, his hand cupping my head, his breath warm on my lips.

“Kayden—”

“No,” he says, his tone nonnegotiable, dragging my mouth to his, his tongue stroking against mine, ending the chance for words, but he lets me taste the answers he will not give me. The hate. His hate for himself in the here and now that I do not understand. I want to understand. But I am still new to him and he to me, and I can tell that questions are not what he needs from me now. I wrap my arms around his neck, and telling him I am his with my kiss, I hold on to him and refuse to let go, my actions echoing his earlier words to me.

He unzips my hoodie, his hands traveling up my waist, over the curve of my breasts, and my nipples tighten and ache with a soft brush of his fingers. He twirls them, his touch rough, arousing. Then his lips leave mine and he looks at me, letting me see what I have tasted, but he refuses to speak. In a blink, his expression has become guarded, the emotion banked deep in some part of him I know I will touch again tonight.

His hand slides to my back and he leans me toward the table, forcing me to catch myself on my elbows. He holds me there, his body cradling mine, his lips a breath from a touch. “I won’t let you fall.”

“I know,” I say, and I do now. Beyond time and reason, I trust this man.

His mouth brushes mine and then trails down my jaw, slowly teasing a path to my ear, where he whispers, “I’m not going to claim to own you the way he did.” He flattens his hands on my belly, possessiveness in the touch. “I’m just going to make you wish I did.”

My lips part with the erotic promise, and he is already kissing me, licking into my mouth, his tongue a sultry, seductive promise that he can make good on his vow. And while I do not wish anyone to own me again, I want what he offers in a way that defies reason.

He nips my lips and licks away the sweet ache, and somehow I feel that lick between my thighs where I am already wet and aching. His whiskers rasp on my cheek, down my neck to my shoulder, a wicked burn that is torment and pleasure at the same time. Like he is. His hands settle on my waist, lingering there, teasing me with all the places they could go, until finally he is caressing my body, up and down, a slow, sexy, torturous exploration.

He pinches my nipples again and he is not gentle, but I do not seem to want gentle. My sex clenches and my knees crush his hips. His lips curve to a small, satisfied smile that is wickedly sexy, and rawly male. He leans in and licks one of my throbbing nipples, sending a shiver down my spine, and I arch upward, the table biting into my elbows, but I do not care. He is sucking me, dragging deep on the knotted peak, and pleasure tingles through my nerve endings, my sex, forcing my legs to squeeze his hips again.

My arms tremble with my weight and he responds without me asking, moving closer and laying me on top of the table. My spine flattens on the hard surface and he lingers above me. “I want more.”

“More what?”

“Everything,” he says, his lips nuzzling my ear as he repeats, “Everything, Ella. Can I have it?”

The question affects me, but not as much as the way he waits, genuinely seeking my approval. He takes power but somehow gives it to me as well, and this is freedom to me, safety. Things I do not think I have often felt in my life. “Yes,” I whisper. “Yes.”

He inhales as if my approval surprises and pleases him, as if it is a gift he relishes, not a property he owns. And it is then that I give myself the freedom to just let go, the muscles in my body easing in ways they hadn’t before. I do give him everything. His mouth caresses mine and he whispers, “That’s what I wanted,” as if he knows I’ve made that decision.

And already his lips are traveling down my neck, tongue flicking here and there, his hand caressing, squeezing my breast. He assaults my senses with pleasure, touching me, kissing me, driving away my memories and enemies. His whiskers rasp my belly, his lips pressing to the center, his tongue flickering into my navel, and I tremble with the silent promise it will soon be where I want it to be. His hand flattens over my sex, inches lower until he is flicking my clit, back and forth, back and forth.

He lifts my legs to his shoulders, spreading me wide, and I am vulnerably his, and aroused beyond belief. He lowers his head, his breath a warm tease on my sensitive places, and I grip the edge of the table, bracing myself for what is to come. He laps at my nub, the barely there touch, and I am breathing hard, wishing I could touch him, incapable of moving, and the muscles of my sex clench so tightly it hurts.