Lovegame(51)

When it’s over he collapses on top of me. I can hear his ragged breathing, feel the wild pounding of his heart against my own, and I want to touch him. To soothe him. But my hands are still bound and it takes several long seconds before he reaches up and releases the belt. And then I’m free and he’s rolling to the side, pulling me with him. I wrap my arms around him, rest my head on his chest and breathe, just breathe.

It takes a long time for me to come down, for the fuzziness in my head to clear and my body to finally stop shaking. Ian is there through it all, lifting a glass of water up to my lips for me to sip, stroking my back, cuddling me against him. I cling to him, twining my arms and legs and body around him like some impossible to get rid of vine. I’m not normally the clinging type, so this is strange to me. New.

I’m not quite sure how I feel about it.

I should get up, get dressed, leave. I don’t cuddle with the men I f*ck and I sure as hell don’t spend the night with them. But I’m drained, emptied out, blown wide open by everything he did and everything he made me feel. Enthralled by him and everything he’s made me feel when I’ve spent years wondering if I could feel anything at all. Which is why, when he whispers, “Stay,” I do.





Chapter 15


I wake to a dazzling early morning sunrise, the sky outside my bedroom window streaked with a carnival of reds and oranges and purples. I’m disoriented for a second, wondering why I’m seeing the sky and the buildings silhouetted against it when I always close the blackout drapes before going to sleep. But then Veronica moves closer to me, snuggling her long, sexy body into mine, and it all comes back to me in a flood.

Every whimper she made.

Every orgasm I pulled out of her.

Every single depraved and debauched thing I did to her.

Every second from the night before etched indelibly into my brain. What the f*ck? What the actual f*ck?

She whimpers, scooting even closer to me. I pull her in, run a gentle hand over her side. And try to pretend the evidence of what I did isn’t written all over her skin.

I fail.

Fuck.

I push up on an elbow, lean in to get a closer look at the damage I did.

She’s got a silver dollar–sized bruise on her collarbone, just one of many hickeys I sucked into her skin at some point last night. There’s an even bigger one on her shoulder, another one on her jaw, a couple small ones on her neck…and those are just the ones on the parts of her body I can see. Who knows what’s buried under the covers?

Just the thought has my stomach churning and before I can think better of it, I’m tugging at the sheet she is currently burrowed under. She moans a little at the disturbance, but doesn’t protest as I drag the fabric down. Then again, how can she? She’s practically comatose, completely exhausted from everything I put her body through last night.

Not that I blame her. Every muscle I have aches like I’ve been through a war—I can only imagine what she feels like considering I kept her bound to my bed for hours. And that’s before I get my first look at her nude body in the harsh light of day. Once I do…

Jesus Christ, how the f*ck is she supposed to film today? She looks like a f*cking vampire went after her.

Or a f*cking sadist.

I shut the thought down as soon as it forms, refuse to give in to the darkness that comes with it. But it’s still there—of course it is. It’s always there, lurking in the corners of my mind as I concentrate on cataloging the damage I caused her instead. There’s a lot to keep me busy.

Wide red marks on the outside of both wrists from the belt she twisted and pulled against.

Whisker burn on the delicate skin of her breasts, her stomach, her inner thighs.

Hickeys of various sizes and colors sprinkled liberally all over her body.

And worst of all—finger-shaped bruises on her hips and thighs and ankles from where I held her down while I f*cked her.

Jesus. I close my eyes, run a hand through my hair. Try to convince myself it isn’t as bad as it looks. But then she moans again, mutters something in her sleep as she grabs at the sheet and rolls over onto her side.

And that’s when I see the redness on her ass—not bruises exactly, not yet, but definite hand shaped marks from where I spanked her last night. It’s going to sting when she sits down today. Maybe even tomorrow.

Fuck.

Fuck, f*ck, f*ck.

I wrecked her last night. I f*cking wrecked her and I don’t even know how it happened. How I let things—how I let myself—get so out of control that I could do this to her.

The churning in my stomach turns to all-out nausea and for a second I think I’m actually going to be sick. I roll away from her abruptly and out the other side of the bed. Then I just sit there for long moments—elbows on my knees, head in my hands, sucking in deep, harsh breaths through my mouth—as I try to get a grip on my roiling, f*cked up emotions.

It’s not easy, not when the woman I all but assaulted last night is only a couple feet away from me. And not when she looks like she’s been ravaged by an animal.

What did I do? The question circles my mind again and again and again. What the f*ck did I do?

I don’t have sex like this. I just don’t. Sure, things get intense sometimes—it’s the nature of the act. The nature of desire. But tying up my partner? Spanking her ass until she bruises? Putting a hand around her throat and squeezing? Holding her down while I f*ck her? That’s never been me.