Page 50 of Brave
“Right,” he said, his jaw clenching once. He leaned over her, bringing with him the heavenly scent of his deodorant as he reached for the lamp on the bedside table.
“It’s okay,” she added, tingling in all the parts of her that he had accidently brushed as he switched the light off again. “You don’t have to keep saying that, either. I know I’m not very attractive. I understand. We don’t ever have to have sex, if you don’t want.”
The entire bed shifted as he nearly rolled on top of her. He smacked the lamp switch, turning the light back on.
No longer bemused, he pinned her to the mattress with a glare. “Say that again?”
He’d growled it, more like a dare than a question. She picked at her fingers, not at all sure how to answer. At least not until he grabbed one of her hands. She immediately stopped fidgeting. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, but he still shoved her hand down under the blanket and the next thing she knew, he had her cupping the bulge of a very sizeable erection. It was very thick.
It was very hard.
“Just so we’re clear,” he said unapologetically, “this is not the cock of a man who thinks you’re unattractive. If you ever say anything like that to me again, you will not like the consequence. I don’t know what I’ll do, but I guarantee you do not want to test my creativity in this area. Got it?”
“B-but,” she stammered, “w-why are you always saying sex is off the table? If you want me, use me!”
His eyes darkened and his laugh came out so close to a growl that she actually shivered. Letting her snatch back her hand, he said, “Honey, when you’re ready to call it something other than using, I will happily bend your ass over the first thing I see and fuck you fast and hard. Want me to pin you facedown on the bed, hands behind your back and hair pinned to the mattress while I have sex with you? Baby, I can do that, too. One of these days, I might even fold you in my arms while we gently, thoroughly, enjoyably make love all night long. But I don’t use people and, sure as hell, that does include you!”
Glaring at her long enough to know there would be no further argument on the subject, he shut the light off again. The click of the switch sounded every bit as angry as his motions felt when he flopped over onto his back beside her.
He breathed a heavy sigh.
She felt horrible.
“Stop picking your fingers,” he said.
She hadn’t realized she was. She gripped a fold of blanket instead, tucking it all the way up to her chin. Lying on her side, facing him in the dark, she could have cried. She’d come in here to be close to him. Right now, all she could feel was a great, yawning expanse in the angry inches that separated them.
She didn’t deserve to be here beside him. She ought to just go back to the couch.
“If you’re not too angry, is it okay if I touch you?” she softly asked instead.
He sighed again. “Touch me whenever you want to. You don’t have to ask permission.”
Was he still angry with her? It was hard to tell. It had only been a moment, but already she could find no hint of temper in his voice.
Careful not to take advantage or push anymore boundaries, she edged a little closer. Stretching out her hand, she found his side first and then his ribs. She liked his warmth and the solid feel of him beneath her timid palm.
She wanted him. More than anything, she ached to caress him, committing all the hard lines of his body to memory.
But no. It was late, tomorrow was a workday, at the very least where Black Light was concerned. She was being selfish, causing him nothing but trouble.
“Is… is it okay if I put my head on your shoulder?” she pleaded. “It’s okay to say no.”
“Do I need to get the cane again?”
It was too dark for her to see him, and she couldn’t imagine he could see her any better. But he must have heard the rasp of her hair on the pillowcase when she shook her head.
“Come here,” he grumbled, the weight of his arm hooking her waist and pulling her right up next to his body.
The crook of his arm and shoulder became a warm, spice-scented substitute for a pillow. His bare skin beneath her cheek, the most sinful luxury she’d ever felt. She tried not to move. If she disturbed him too much, surely he would push her away, but she couldn’t help it. Contact with him was everything that she had been starved of for so very long. She curled into his one-armed embrace, her legs finding the soft cotton of his pajama bottoms. Her knee drew up, seeking entrance in between and he opened, allowing her leg to slip between his.
He smelled good. He felt better. The heat of his skin seared away at her tingling fingertips. Her breasts felt swollen. Her pussy throbbed.
His lips brushed her forehead in the dark and her own ached—just ached—in response. She tried so hard not to chase that kiss, but her body defied her. Her head tipped, her chin lifting. She breathed in the sigh he exhaled, the feather-light brush of his mouth moving down her cheek even as he said, “Honey, I am not a saint.”
“Please don’t stop touching me,” she begged.
Her hand caressed the stubbled line of his jaw, her thumb tracing longingly across his bottom lip just before he found hers in the darkness. The bite of pain was only half as exquisite as the wanton ache that burned through her when he slipped his hand beneath her t-shirt, cupping as much of her bottom as he could hold and squeezing.
