Page 71 of Secrets, Lies and Love

She runs away, and despite being pissed at realizing she’s running away from the conversation, I smile.

Cecily Bradley is as unpredictable as a summer storm.

I don’t like storms, normally. Definitely not unexpected ones. But I really like everything that comes from her.

I won’t bring up the subject of the deadline we set yesterday again. Instead, I watch her as she eats. “You were really hungry.”

“I eat like a dockworker after a forty-eight-hour day with no breaks. Nothing elegant.”

I like the way she uses irony against herself. It’s not a lack of self-esteem, I realize. It’s characteristic petulance.

“Have you been doing this all your life?”

“Eaten a lot?” she asks, continuing to devour the omelet with a smile at the corner of her mouth. “Whenever possible.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

She looks away and shrugs. “Exactly what I said: if I have leftovers, I eat a lot. Otherwise, I do it in moderation. I can adapt very easily.”

It’s like having an iron ball rolling around in my stomach. “Have you ever gone hungry?”

She takes the jug of juice and fills her own glass. “Do you want more?” she asks, ignoring my question, and I shake my head. “I think I don’t gain weight because I have good genes. My mother was thin.”

I allow her to change the subject because I don’t want to embarrass her, but now I want to know more about her past. “Tell me about your life in Kansas.”

She gets up without answering me and goes to the fridge, coming back with whipped cream. “We’ve already talked a lot. I want to make a fantasy come true,” she says, sitting on the table, in front of my chair, but not parting her thighs.

I know what she’s doing: steering the situation toward sex, because Cecily doesn’t want to talk about the past. I desperately hunt for any ounce of willpower within me to tell her no, but it’s no use.

I growl, irritated, and separate her thighs. Her pussy is glowing with excitement.

I stand up and, grabbing the sides of her shirt, I tear it from her body, turning it into a rag that I discard on the floor. The buttons litter the kitchen floor.

I push her back onto the table and plant her feet on the surface. Without saying anything, I open the tube of cold cream and spread it over her breasts and pussy.

“Don’t move or I’ll stop.” I lick the coating on her sex, and the sweet mixture along with her taste delights me.

She undulates with each touch of my tongue, moaning softly, but I don’t stop until I make her come. When she gives in to her climax, I pull her legs around me and thrust myself deep into her silky cavern.

My mind is a mess of anger and lust because I don’t like being manipulated, and for the first time, I wonder why she is so skittish.

Yes, I know that our relationship involves risk, but I’m sure that this madness that hit me after we had sex is not one-sided. Yet it seems easy for her to turn her back on what we have.

What is she hiding from me? Because there has to be something that makes her so sure that she should run away from me.

Is my intensity scaring her?

“Was that what you wanted? To get fucked?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“No, you’re lying. You wanted to escape the conversation.”

“I always want you. I didn’t lie.”

“Yes, I know you want me. Right now your pussy is pulsing around my cock, but I know you’re hiding from me too and I don’t like it. I’m going to unravel you,” I warn, thrusting into her without letup.

I slide a hand over the curve of her ass, caress a nipple with my thumb, and nibble her neck.

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