Library

Chapter 22

22

Nola

The craft show is at the Mariott in downtown, and as I wheel in the cart holding all my wares, I take note of the strange costumes first. Everyone’s wearing black. Black capes. Black makeup. Black everything. My table is next to a heavier-set woman, positioning candles and black satchels on her table, and little necklace thingies she refers to as talismans.

This should be my first clue, really, but I’m so preoccupied with the thought that half my sets aren’t full sets, I don’t notice the symbols and signs and everything that serves as a marquee for my idiocy. No, it isn’t until someone asks me what power my ceramics hold, and if I sell a mortar and pestle, that I realize craft is short for witchcraft.

A fucking witchcraft convention.

Hands covering my face, I burst into laughter when it hits me, to the point of tears, and the stares I draw aren’t friendly.

This is, by far, the only way I can possibly imagine this week ending.

A woman steps up to my booth, and when she asks me if I happen to sell cauldrons, a howl of laughter escapes me, sending her off to my neighbor.

I must look possessed, with bouts of uncontrollable cackling.

Who the hell mistakes a witchcraft convention for a craft show, after all?

“How’s it going, Star Wars?” The deep velvet voice quiets my amusement, and when I slide my hands from my face, Voss is standing in front of me. In a three-piece suit that clings to his muscles, he’s almost enough distraction to keep me from breaking down.

“Look around and tell me who, in this place, doesn’t belong?” Another spasm of laughter bursts from my chest, and when his gaze trails over the surrounding booths and back to me, his lips stretch with a smile.

“Well, you got the craft part right, anyway.”

A wheeze brings more tears to my eyes, which I wipe away. “I haven’t sold a damn thing!” More laughter.

Voss chuckles, too, the sound of his amusement only adding to mine.

Until it hits me. All this work, and I’m a hundred bucks in the hole for the table fee. A hundred bucks that I’d rather have spent on Oli for Christmas. A hundred bucks I could’ve used to pay a bill, or take him out to dinner. A hundred bucks I just donated to a bunch of witches.

Suddenly, it isn’t so funny anymore.

“How much for everything?” Voss’s question breaks me out of my silent lamenting.

“What?”

“How much would you have made had you sold everything?”

I shrug, not really wanting to think about it, since the number is so far away at the moment. “Eight hundred. Give, or take.”

“All that work for eight hundred? You’re selling yourself short, Nola.” He picks up one of the vases I repaired, with its golden cracks over shiny black glaze. “I’ll give you a thousand for everything. Do you ship?”

“Very funny, Voss. That’s as bad as Jonah coming in here to buy all my shit.”

“My apartment is lacking. I could use some hand-thrown pottery.”

“Okay, I’ll give you a few vases, but I’m not selling to you.”

“Is it because we’re neighbors?”

“Is that all we are still? I was wondering about that after yesterday.”

His brow wings up and he glances over his shoulder, his head obviously spinning with more ideas than mine at the moment. “If you didn’t have the burden of needing money, would you give this stuff away?”

“Ah, is this a test to see how passionate I am about pottery?”

He shrugs and stuffs his hands into his perfectly pressed slacks. “Maybe I’m just trying to get rid of this shit so I can take you out to dinner.”

“I guess I’d give it away, if someone wanted it. It’d be nice not to have to cart all this stuff home again.”

He tugs his wallet from his pocket and counts out a thousand dollars in front of me, then turns to face the crowd. “Excuse me! Can I have your attention?”

The crowd ignores him, the noise of witches shopping too loud for him to be heard.

Using the chair set out for me, he climbs up onto my table, leaving me staring at shiny, polished black shoes that I can practically see my reflection in.

“Voss! What are you doing?”

“Excuse me! Can I have your attention?” The conversations die down, and all eyes turn toward Voss.

Once again, my cheeks are burning. Hot.

“For the next ten minutes, everything at this table is free to take!”

The second he announces it, the sound of pounding hits my ears, as a stampede makes their way to my table. Women and men dressed in black capes and hats, fighting over my pottery like it’s Black Friday at Walmart. The table wiggles and jostles. Someone knocks over a now-empty wooden crate that once housed a stack of dishes. The Christmas tree I set out for display lies tipped over on the table, it’s mini bulbs rolling around in front of me.

It doesn’t even take ten minutes for every piece of pottery on my table to disappear, along with my business cards and the bowl of mints I set out.

My table is empty, as ravaged as a tuna buffet in a piranha tank.

And for the second time today, I break into hysterical laughter.

* * *

Iwheel a single box, filled mostly with table props, out of the conference room and find Voss waiting for me by the elevator. In his arms is a small crate with a table cloth, lights, and gift bags that nobody bothered to use. “I don’t know whether to hate you, or hug you, right now.”

“Tell me you wanted to sit through Pixie’s seminar on Potions, and I’ll feel like shit for what I did.”

My stomach can’t possibly muster another laugh, but it does. And when the elevator dings, opening up to more witches, I clamp my mouth shut, feeling as if I’m about to explode when I step inside.

“’Nough said,” Voss says, the serious tone of his voice sending me over the edge.

My head hurts from laughing so much, or maybe it’s just the exhaustion of having gotten my ass up early to set up for this. “Part of me wants to cry. I can’t believe I did this.” I press the button to the garage level, about twelve floors down from the conference room, and rest my head against the mirrored wall.

“Well, that’ll teach you to read the fine print, won’t it?”

“You didn’t have to do that back there. I feel like you’ve rescued me more times this week than anyone has my whole life.”

He sets the basket on the floor of the elevator and crowds me against the wall. “Stay with me.”

“What?”

“I’ll get a room. We’ll get some wine. Fuck all night.”

My spine vibrates with a chill, and I mentally swallow the visual he’s planted in my head. “Voss … I have … I have to pick up Jonah. I mean, Oliver. From Jonah’s.”

“Three hours, Star Wars. That’s all I want.” He toys with a curl in my hair, smoothing the strand between his fingers. “Three hours with you. Alone.”

“I don’t …”

Palm cupping my jaw, he crushes his lips to mine, the spicy cinnamon of his breath only adding to the delicious taste in my mouth. Voss doesn’t just kiss, he consumes, engulfing me in his heat. What began as a tiny spark of excitement in my fingertips catches flame inside me and moves through my veins as if to burn through every ounce of my resistance. “Three hours. Please.”

The husky tone of his voice bleeds a small bit of desperation, like every minute counts against him.

“Voss. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

The elevator dings, and he steps aside, when it opens to the sixth floor and an older woman walks on. She smiles and turns her back to us, the awkward silence broken by the gasp that escapes me, when Voss snakes his hand down my ass and between my thighs.

The woman turns to smile again and clears her throat, before returning her attention toward the numbers counting down the floors.

Fingertips dancing across the sensitive skin between my legs, he fondles me in the most deliciously forbidden way. Every nerve in my body hums as the pad of his finger traces closer across my skin to the thin fabric separating him from what he’s made clear he wants most.

He finds it, reaching lower, until he’s probing the entrance, warning me of what’s to come.

Literally.

Lips parted, I close my eyes, mentally willing myself not to breathe too harshly. Not to get too caught up in the fantasies of being fingered right here in public, behind some poor, unsuspecting lady who has no idea how wicked this man is.

As if he read my mind last night in the bathtub. I’m dizzy with want, and his touch is selling exactly what I need right now.

“Three hours,” he whispers, but certainly not quiet enough for what he’s doing to me. “Deal?”

“Shhhh!”

The older woman clears her throat a second time.

Running his finger up and down my slit, he kisses the shell of my ear. “If you don’t, my dick will fall off, and I’ll spend the rest of my life masturbating with a pillow.”

Hand slapped to my face, I try to cap the snort that escapes me, and my body convulses with silent laughter.

“Please. Do it for the pillows.” He smiles against my cheek and bites at my earlobe, which truth be told, only adds to the dizzy sensation from before. “Will you stay with me?”

“What’s the significance of three hours?” I whisper, and goddamn, this elevator is taking forever.

“You’ll have to stay with me to find out.” The moment his fingers break contact, the knot in my stomach eases, and the wetness he’s stoked saturates my cotton panties until they’re sliding against my skin.

The elevator dings again, opening to the lobby, and before the older woman in front of us exits, she turns around, setting her hand on my arm, and leans in. “Life’s short, sweetheart. Rent the room. For the sake of pillows everywhere.” With a wink, she hobbles away.

Eyes wide with horror, I thump my fist into Voss’s shoulder. The door closes again, and he grabs either side of my face, backing me into the wall.

His tongue dips past my teeth, deepening his kiss, and he drags my thigh up over his hip. With my knee hiked, he once again has access to what he wants, and the tickle along my slit is a warning. “I want more, Nola.”

The elevator dings and opens to the lower level, where the garage sits beneath the hotel. No one there, not that it seems to matter to Voss, who keeps on with his curious tongue and wandering fingers. It closes again, but doesn’t move.

We do, though. Voss drags his lips down over my throat, biting my jawline along the way. I’m squirming in his solid arms like a worm caught on a hook. Frantic and impatient, we tear into each other like it’s the last few seconds on earth.

“I’ll do anything to make you mine tonight. Anything you want.” Pushing the crotch of my damp panties aside, he flicks his finger over my sodden entrance and shudders a breath. “Fuck, you’re already wet for me.”

“You can have … any woman. Why me? I’m just … just a mom.”

“You’re a hot mom. A beautiful mom. And I got fucking mommy issues.” Only the tip of his finger slips inside. In and out, bringing to mind a stark awareness that it’s been too long. Too long since I’ve felt wanted. Desired.

Properly fucked.

Trollop. I cringe at the words of my mother. But then I remember, my mother had a man who doted on her for years, and she never once appreciated him. She never felt the empty void of affection, never spent her nights trying to remember the scent of her husband, or the sound of his voice. She built her own cage to avoid my father, to shun his affections, so she wouldn’t know the first thing about what I need right now.

“Three hours. That’s it, right?”

“Three hours.”

I don’t know what the hell is so significant about three hours, but I reach out and press the button for the lobby. “Okay. Deal.”

* * *

“Ihad no idea you could pay for a hotel room with cash.”

“You can do just about anything, if you talk to the right person.” Voss threads his fingers in mine, stepping aside for the wait staff, who wheel in dinner and two of their best bottles of wine, per his request. I catch him slip a wad of green into the waiter’s palm as he passes, and the moment he closes the door, my heart flutters like it’s prom night all over again.

A whirlpool tub takes up the corner of the room across from the bed. Not in the bathroom. Across from the bed. As if to encourage sex afterward. To the right of it stands a wide dresser mirror that takes up half the wall, beyond the foot of the bed, offering a clear, unobstructed view. Like voyeurs. The whole damn room seems to be designed for one thing.

I can’t even turn around for fear I’ll end up doing something embarrassing, like passing out. The last time I was with a guy, other than Denny, was Spin-The-Bottle at age fourteen, when Jake Northcott pulled me into a closet to kiss me.

The age gap between Voss and me is suddenly apparent, as I stand here, feeling like an inexperienced girl, against this man who’s probably had a woman every way imaginable. I don’t even know what’s sexy anymore. I’m only glad that I wore matching underwear and shaved my legs during my bath the night before.

“Turn around, Nola.” He’s closer now. Close enough that I can feel the buzz of excitement vibrating off of him.

With a deep breath, I turn around to catch him unbuttoning his shirt, and everything comes crashing in on me with vivid reality. This is really happening.

“Take your panties off,” he says, popping his cufflinks.

The tickle of his command beats against my skin like a soft caress, and I steal a minute to focus on my breathing. Take your panties off. My stomach flutters, sending goosebumps across my flesh. His words reverberate inside my head, telling me there’s no going back to just Voss and Nola after this. Taking off my panties will be lowering my guard, letting down the walls and leaving myself open and vulnerable to whatever Voss has in mind.

Taking a moment to release a shaky exhale, I reach around for the zip of my skirt, only loosening the small latch, before he pauses his undressing.

“Not the skirt. Just the panties.”

“Just the panties,” I echo, abandoning the zipper. Part of me is relieved I get to shield some part of myself, but another part of me says that isn’t how Voss works. Somehow, even with my skirt on, this will undoubtedly be the dirtiest experience I’ve ever had.

He slowly peels his shirt over thick shoulders, exposing the lean, cut muscle of his body beneath as if he’s preparing me for a fight.

If that’s the case, his body is a momentary distraction of pure perfection—one that has me mentally calibrating our compatibility. Will that body hurt me? If he’s as proportionate as what I’ve seen so far, I’m in trouble.

A patch of white draws my attention to a bandage taped across his bicep. “What happened there?” I ask, tipping my head toward it.

He doesn’t even bother to look, as if far too distracted to care. “Nothing. Unbutton your shirt, and take off your bra.”

What is it with him, making me undress beneath my clothes like I’m some Houdini master?

The curiosity compels me to find out, so I unfasten the buttons of my shirt, one by one, desperate to remember whether, or not, I put on deodorant this morning.

Meanwhile, Voss unzips his slacks, pushing them down his thighs over hard, chiseled muscles that look strong enough to crush me.

I reach inside my shirt and slide my arms from the loops of my bra, pulling the garment out of my sleeve and letting it fall to the floor.

He corners me, setting a palm to the wall beside my head, like a cunning wolf happening upon a small and unwitting rabbit in the woods. Reaching down between us, he hikes my skirt to just below my bare sex beneath and takes a moment to squeeze the back of my thighs.

In the mirror across from me, I look disheveled. Messy. The embodiment of sexual repression unleashed.

Dragging his fingertip down along the edge of my crisp, white shirt, he grazes my nipple, seeming to study me as he drags it back up for another pass. The sensation of his finger over my diamond hard flesh sends another wet rush between my thighs.

“Stay put.”

He crosses the room to the tray that stands beside the small kitchenette, and opens the bottle of wine, popping the cork, before pouring two glasses. Setting the bottle back on the tray, he pauses and lifts what looks to be a long, silicone stopper for the bottle, twisting it around with some unsaid curiosity. A quick glance back at me, and he moves to the sink, pumping a small bit of soap over it, and flips on the faucet.

Washing it?

Instead of pushing the stopper into the bottle, he flips the cork and plugs the opening with it, then returns carrying a glass of wine and the stopper.

Eyes narrowed, I instinctively back up a step. “What are you doing?”

“Drink some wine.”

“Not until I know what you plan to do with the wine stopper.”

“I plan to fuck you with it, Nola.”

I back up another step and frown.

“I’m a bit of a naturalist when it comes to sex. We’re surrounded by things—props and toys—that make it so much more exciting. Yet, half the time we don’t even use the shit.”

“So, you brought me up here to get yourself off, is that it? To get your fucking jollies watching me bang a wine stopper?”

“When was the last time you went outside of your comfort zone?”

“Never. I’m pretty sure that’s why they exist, ya know? Boundaries.”

“Boundaries exist to box you in. To make you fear what’s on the other side of them.”

“Boundaries keep others from venturing into places they don’t belong.” I wriggle my finger toward the stopper. “Keeps you from feeling unnecessary pain.”

“No one knows that better than me, Nola.” Snorting a laugh, he sets the wine down on the nightstand beside us. Without warning, he slaps his hand to my mouth, his big, imposing body pressing into me, until the wall hits my spine.

The shock tightens my muscles into a strange paralysis, every muscle trembling with adrenaline.

“But let’s say, for a second, that you step outside those boundaries,” he whispers, and licks his lips. “Say that you make yourself vulnerable for a minute.” He twists the stopper in front of me. “What if it felt fucking incredible to let go like that? Could you, in all your tightly-wound up morals and virtues even imagine such a thing?” His eyes are on me, thick with lust and challenge, and I can feel my heartbeat soaring in response. The cool silicone tickles my thigh as he traces it up and down my leg. “You think it’s appalling to fuck something so common as a wine stopper. But what if it felt good, Nola? How ashamed would you feel getting off on it?”

Teasing the hem of my skirt with the object, he keeps his hand pressed to my mouth, his warm cinnamon breath beating against my throat, where he drags his tongue, just before his lips clamp down.

“Ah!” My muffled cry arrives as more of a whimper behind the barricade at my mouth.

The stopper trails up my skirt, only grazing my exposed slit. “I’ll make a deal with you. Let me fuck you with this, and if you don’t come, I’ll let you watch me fuck myself with it.”

Part of me wants to laugh at such a bold statement. This man doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does about my body to make that kind of a deal.

“Are you willing to go outside your boundaries, Nola?”

The tip of the stopper presses against my seam as he gently draws up and down over my clit. Penetrating gray eyes study me, burning with intrigue and what I surmise to be a small bit of amusement.

My knees turn weak, eyes heavy with a foreign rush, and I nod.

“Good girl.” Pressing his knee against my thigh, he spreads my legs as far as the skirt will allow, still pinning me against the wall. Kissing along my jaw, he drags the tip down to my entrance and pauses there, circling it against my flesh, teasing me. My belly is tight with anticipation, my hands balled into fists against the wall at either side of me. “I want to watch you come all over this,” he whispers and pushes the stopper up into me.

I gasp against his palm at the unexpected pleasure of the ribs rubbing along my walls, and flex my fingers in an effort to hold onto something. The ridges of the stopper add just enough friction to each glide, and I can’t help but moan at the delicious intrusion.

No, it’s wrong. This isn’t romantic, it’s dirty and humiliating, and I tell myself not to be lured by such wicked pleasures my mother always referred to as carnal and unbecoming when she talked to me about sex.

“It should be pure and discreet, and only between two people who love each other,”she often said.

Yet, in seconds, I’m panting against his hand, struggling to keep upright, as the wet sounds betray my resistance. A slap in my mother’s face, as my body shivers with each new thrust.

“Listen to that. All your morals falling down. Fucking music to my ears.” There’s an edge of excitement to his words, a shaky quality in his voice, as he ups the pace, breathing hard against my throat, like he’s the one getting off. “Don’t you come, Star Wars. You wouldn’t want to lose the bet.”

I moan again, my whole body warring against itself, as he strings me along toward climax.

With every plunge, there’s an awareness that I have no chance of winning this, as the stopper becomes increasingly slick from my juices.

“I’m going to fuck you after this. Because I can’t stand the thought of not being inside you for one more minute. I’m going to fuck you hard, Nola. And something tells me you’ll like it,” he says through clenched teeth.

Another ripple of ecstasy winds down my spine, and as I slide against the wall, he presses into me, urging me back up.

“No, no. Not until you come.” He tugs the stopper out of me and sucks it clean, before reinserting it. “You taste so good.” His voice is more ragged, before his tongue curls around my nipple.

I arch, crying out, as he sucks and flicks and bites, moaning against my flesh.

Every part of me begs to reject such an arrogant assumption that I’d enjoy rough sex with him, but I can’t. Not after he’s already proven me wrong.

Gripping his arm for support, I feel the ball of muscle beneath his skin, the tension running thick through him, telling me he has no intentions of giving in.

I’m deliriously close to climax, so much so, I feel drunk, and when he plunges one last time, my whole body squirms and shudders as a rush of tingles explodes through my muscles. All I can do is mewl against his palm like a trapped little kitten who’s fallen prey to the lion.

“That’s it, baby. That’s what I want to hear.”

When my gaze shifts to his, there’s a knowing smile on his face, but without all the smugness. He looks pleased. And for reasons I can’t wrap my head around in the moment, I like that. We stare at each other, only the sound of our stuttering breaths filling the quiet between us. I watch the way the muscles in his biceps and chest flex and tighten while he finishes me. Ruins me in ways I wasn’t anticipating. How his chest rises and falls quickly with panting breaths that match my own. As if the two of us are completely in sync.

His eyes are hard and concentrated, a thunderstorm that I want to sweep me away. He leans forward, kissing me as he pushes the stopper in and leaves it there. “Get on the bed. Now.”

I do as he says, awkwardly hobbling along as the evidence of my arousal trickles down my thighs and the stopper reminds me of why. Midway onto the bed, I turn to see him staring at me in the mirror’s reflection. Ass propped, I can see everything—including the glistening bare skin with the wine stopper sticking out of me that betrays every morally questionable thought I’ve had so far.

Voss moans, and I catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye.

He strokes himself with eyes rapt on me, giving me the perfect view of his fully erect cock sticking up from his muscled thighs. “Beautiful, isn’t it? How can a man not want to fuck that?”

Shrinking into myself, I study the width of the mirror’s reflection and there’s no hiding from it. “I can’t do this. Not if I have to watch myself the whole time.”

“What’s wrong with watching yourself?”

“It’s just … weird.”

“Out of your comfort zone.”

“Way out. Like … across the galaxy.”

“Well, that’s the point, Star Wars.” He yanks my legs, and my body slides across the mattress until my ass slams into his thighs. “Hands behind your back.”

Knees still weak and muscles warm with fresh climax, I do as he says, and when I hear the tearing of foil, I know this thing between us has only just begun. Lifting my head off the bed, I watch the reflection of him rolling a condom down his shaft.

In the next breath, he buries his face in my ass, and I jerk forward to get away. My God, the idea of his face there is mortifying. My stomach curls with embarrassment as he holds me still, his fingers digging into my hips as he licks my most forbidden place.

“Voss! Wait … please.”

He doesn’t stop, and in spite of the shame, I roll my head against the mattress, while his tongue sweeps over my hole and down to the stopper. Teeth gripping the edges, he removes the object, spitting it out onto the bed beside me, and sucks at my over-sensitive flesh with the fervor of a man who’s been denied water too long. In the mirror, I’m propped face down, with my hands bound behind my back, watching him stroke his cock as he essentially eats me out. I clamp my eyes to shield out the visual that, admittedly, is the most darkly erotic thing I’ve even seen. It tickles my belly and sends of rush of blood to my core. I bury my face in the mattress, mouth gaping, moaning, desperate for air and mercy, while his tongue wets my swollen folds, his lips kissing and sucking away my useless protests. The guttural rumble of contentment in his throat reminds me of an animal relishing its recent kill.

Carnal and unbecoming.

If my mother saw me now, she’d have a second heart attack, I’m sure of it.

“Don’t move,” he says, and moves toward the whirlpool tub. The water flips on, and I turn toward him, catching sight of his perfect muscled ass as he bends forward, running his hand through the spray and splashing the water onto his face.

I want to say this afternoon with Voss is something I’ll never do again as long as I live, and that I should enjoy it while it lasts, but I know that’s not true. I’ve learned a few things about myself in the last half hour.

First, a wine stopper really does feel incredible, even if it’s wrong.

And second, I am hopelessly attracted to this man’s unapologetic approach to sex. It’s evident, the way I haven’t moved since he walked away—my arms still bound behind my back, my cheek still flat against the mattress, ass high in the air—that I enjoy his command. His roughness. That I yearn for more of it.

When he turns around to face me again, there’s a dark and hungry gleam in his eyes, and I have no doubt this man would eat me alive. Without a word, he slides his hands beneath me and lifts me up into his arms like I weigh nothing.

He sets me down on wobbly legs, and I let him strip away my skirt, then the shirt, like he’s systematically peeling away layers of my resistance, until I’m standing completely naked in front of him and yet another mirror above the tub.

It’s instinct that draws my hand over my mound, shielding it from his prying eyes, because there’s no way in hell I’d have let Denny look at me the way Voss is right now. In fact, I insisted on the lights being turned off during sex.

He pushes my hands away, making a deep masculine sound of appreciation in his chest, and steps into the tub first, flicking his fingers for me to follow. Somehow, he looks bigger in the tub, his body even more imposing than before.

My skin practically sizzles, as I toe the water and step down, letting him draw me onto his lap. Back to his chest, I straddle his legs, as his palm presses against my inner thigh, spreading me open.

Two fingers dip inside me, damn near splitting me in half, and he kisses my shoulder. “’Fraid I’m more than two fingers, Star Wars.”

Hands to my hips, he guides me onto his fully erect cock, and I have to brace myself when his tip breaches my entrance, far bigger than any other man I’ve been with.

“I wish I could say I’ll be gentle, but you’ve got me wound so fucking tight right now, I need to get inside you.”

Pressing at either side of me, he eases me down, allowing me to stretch around him with tiny thrusts. Inch by inch, he seats himself deeper, tunneling his cock a little more each time. One quick shunt, and I hear him groan behind me, while I remain on my knees, submerged up to my breasts in the water, and back arched, I claw the edge of the tub, letting my body acclimate to the pain of his girth.

“Watching you come with that stopper is the hottest thing I’ve seen. I need more, but it’s my cock that’s going to make you shatter like that.” He gives another upward thrust and growls in my ear.

“Voss!” I arch further, taking in the fullness of him, while he sits motionless for a moment.

Arms wrap around me, urging me back against him, and he circles his hips, slowly stirring his dick inside of me.

With lazy pumps in and out of me, he pinches my nipples that only just stick up out of the water. “I’m going to take my time with you. The wait is fucking torture, but it’s worth it. Tonight is all about you.”

“Wait for what?” I curl my fingers and bite my lip, as he drives into me at a maddening deliberate pace.

He doesn’t answer, and it doesn’t matter, because somehow, somehow, he’s coaxing my body into arousal again.

I wouldn’t think it possible so soon after climax, but the tightening of my belly, the ache tugging deep inside of me, the hungry monster so starved for this kind of attention it’s become insatiable, has awakened once again. Masculine sounds of pleasure vibrate over my skin, as he tugs and toys with my nipples, while his cock stretches and fills me. Powerful, controlled, rocking into me like billowing waves that could easily break into riptides, dragging me under the surface.

For the next hour and a half, he fucks me this way, in the tub, on the bed, keeping me on the edge of climax, until I’m drenched in sweat and every muscle is trembling and fragile.

The man is relentless. His body glistens with all of his toil, but he keeps on like there’s some electrical source feeding his cock. I’ve never known a man to go so long in my life.

I’ve already climaxed twice while trying to hold out for him. My body is so worn down, my muscles so weak and soft, all I can do is roll my head, as I writhe with his continued assault.

Caged below him, I stare into his eyes, those beautifully unforgiving gray eyes, and reach up to touch his face. “Wait. Please. I need to stop.” The hoarse drag of my voice begs for a single drop of water.

Voss finally collapses onto the bed beside me, and removes the flaccid and empty condom from his shaft.

“You didn’t …” I can’t even say it, the shame of having climaxed twice already heating my cheeks. “How can you … go so long?”

“Not easily with you, I’ll admit.”

“You’re saying that was intentional?”

“Today was about you, Nola. Not me.” He reaches for the two bottles of water set out on the nightstand and tosses me one.

Cracking the lid, I tip it back, guzzling the ice-cold fluids that damn near sizzle when I swallow, while my mind spins an endless web of questions. Did I do something wrong? Is he turned off? Perhaps thinking of someone else? Wishing of someone else?

“Am I …” A bad lay? Even Denny came relatively quickly, and that was toward the end when we hated each other.

After one long swig, Voss sets his half-drank water bottle back on the nightstand. “Are you what?”

“I mean … I know I’m a little inexperienced, and all …” I close the cap, running my finger over the top to keep from having to look at him, where he sits sprawled beside me, the embodiment of masculinity. “I’ve not been with many …”

“You’re perfect. Don’t question anything about yourself.”

“You say that, but that’s exactly what I’m doing.” Weakly pushing up from the bed, all I want to do leave and not have to look into those eyes of his again, but the moment I slide from the mattress, I’m yanked back.

Hard.

The mortification ruptures inside of me, and his ridiculous little affirmations are just a slap in the face. “Let me go, Voss.”

“Not a chance.” Amusement colors his voice, only adding to my frustration, as I muster what little energy is left in me to wriggle away from him, so I can go hide in the bathroom and chide myself for being an idiot. “You’re upset about what, exactly? That I didn’t want it to be over in a matter of minutes? That I chose to draw it out for as long as I could and savor you?”

“I … um.” Feel kind of silly. I didn’t think of it that way.

“The pain of anticipation heightens the ecstasy of release. I’ve built up a lot of stamina, waiting for a woman like you to come along who can take it.”

“That’s very poetic, Voss. But I don’t believe a word of that.”

“Whether you believe it, or not, it’s true. I could go all night with you, Nola.” His still hard cock nudging my ass is a reminder that sends an ache up into my womb. Had I done something wrong, or turned him off, I doubt he’d have kept that monster erect the whole time. “I’d never tire of you.” Arm banded across my stomach, he pulls me tighter. “You’re the best kind of torture.”

“I guess I just feel kind of … greedy.”

“You should feel greedy. You deserve to be greedy. How many assholes would’ve felt bad for busting a nut inside of you first and calling it a night?”

Too many, unfortunately. I doubt any guy I’ve been with ever bothered to put much thought into my enjoyment.

“Be greedy. Be tenacious with the things that make you feel good. And for fucks sake, don’t ever apologize for it.”

I want to believe that Voss is everything I’ve made him up to be in my head—this ridiculously hot alpha who is all about pleasing his female at the expense of his own gratification.

I’m inclined to think he follows his own advice, though, pursuing what he wants unapologetically, so his words don’t exactly add up in my head. But regardless, he’s right. No man I’ve ever been with felt bad for using me, so why the hell should I? Particularly if this one is giving me permission to take from him.

And I did. A couple times. It felt pretty damn amazing, too.

Scooting back onto the bed beside him, I curl up into his massive body, wrapping my leg over his hip, where his rock hard erection still sticks up between us. Jesus, the guy must be in agony right now. “I could try to get you off, if you wanted.”

Palm gripping my thigh, he lifts my leg higher so his tip sits at my entrance. Maybe he’s a masochist, or something. “It’s okay. You’re tired. Get some rest.”

He’s right. Having gotten up early to prepare for this show, carting all that pottery around, followed by hours of sex, has softened my bones and left me useless. My whole body feels like it’s been pummeled, but I can’t deny that I didn’t enjoy every minute, even the parts that made me a little uncomfortable at first.

“I can’t really bear to think of someone using that wine stopper again,” I say. “We’re just going to toss it, right?”

A chuckle rumbles in his chest. “I had the bellhop pick it up from the gift shop downstairs. It’s yours to keep. As a souvenir.”

I laugh at that and snuggle into him. “Thank you for this,” I whisper, more appreciatively than before.

“What are you thanking me for?”

“For being a decent guy.” I yawn and stretch against him, letting his warm body lull me into the afternoon snooze that’s calling to me. “Feels like everyone’s a psychopath these days.”

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