Page 16 of The Rejected Wife

"Not yet." He releases me, and before I can react, he bends his knees and scoops me up in his arms.

I squeak.

He strides toward the inner rooms of his penthouse. We pass the sleek furniture I noticed earlier, highlighted by statement lighting from the ceiling. There's a massive television on the wall and a comfortable sectional with cushions opposite it. Thick rugs are strewn around, and a couple of massive armchairs invite me to sink into them. There are paintings on the walls—all of which depict modern art and I’m sure are originals. It’s clearly a bachelor pad, but it also feels lived in.

I notice a kitchen with gleaming built-in appliances. On the countertop is a heavy-duty food blender, as well as a knife block, and a holder with spatulas and other cooking utensils. A large island in the center carries a bowl of fruit. A part of the countertop has been converted to a butcher's block, which looks well used.Does this man cook?

The carpet cushions the sound of his footsteps as he stalks up the corridor. We pass the closed doors to three other rooms, and when he reaches the double doors at the end of the hallway, he shoulders them open.

The doors snick shut behind us, and I take in the large room with a massive, super king-sized bed that dominates the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows make up one wall, through which the lights of the city twinkle. A lamp on the nightstand casts a warm glow over crisp white bedclothes.

He marches across the thick carpeting and drops me on the bed. I bounce once, but before I can sit up, he planks over my body. I’m bracketed in with his elbows on either side of me.

For a few seconds, he simply stares at me.

"What?" I try not to give in to the tremors wracking my body.

"I can’t believe I have you under my roof, in my bed," he says slowly.

There’s awe in his voice, and underlying it is the thickness of lust and something else…Something awfully close to… Love? Nah. You can’t feel love for someone you met a few hours ago, right?

He lowers his big body onto mine, slowly, slowly. He’s only leaning some of his upper body weight on me, but it’s enough to pin me to the bed. I sigh. It feels so good. It feels amazing. I didn’t realize how much I needed this until now. My pussy clenches in on itself, and my breasts are so swollen, they feel too heavy for my body. I feel the need to be held, to feel his weight on top of me. I throw my arms about his neck and hold on tightly. A moan spills from my lips, and it sounds so yearning, so very needy. I should be embarrassed, but I’m not.

The one thing I’ve learned through my self-help books is to seek my own gratification and not apologize for it. So far, it’s resulted in an intimate knowledge of the various toys I’ve used to pleasure myself. This is the first time a real-life man is responsible for making me feel like I’m about to self-combust. A shiver grips me. My heart flutters like a butterfly in my rib cage. My scalp feels like it’s on fire. I feel like I’m burning up. It’s a feeling more intense than the time I realized that I'm the one responsible for my life and my future. No one else. It’s what made me leave home at eighteen.

He leans back, putting a little distance between us, and observes me closely. "You okay?"

I nod.

"You sure?"

I nod again.

His gaze softens. He draws his finger down the line of my nose, to the dip in my upper lip. I open my mouth, enough to draw his digit between my lips. I suck on it and am rewarded by his sharp inhalation. He leans more of his lower body weight on me. Instantly, I feel something very thick, long, and insistent stabbing into my upper thigh.

My eyes round. None of my toys, or my romance novels, or the porn I watched prepared me for how weighty, how hefty, how massive, that part of him is. And when he pries my legs further apart so that heavy part of him nestles in the triangle between my thighs, it feels hot and sweet and erotic, all at the same time.

In this position, I feel pinned down. I feel owned. Possessed. Branded by the throbbing arousal which I can feel through the barriers of my clothes and his. Speaking of—I slide my palms down his back, reveling in the peaks and valleys of the muscles until, once more, my fingertips brush up against his belt.

"Greedy, hmm?"

"I just want to feel your skin against mine," I whine.

"All in good time." He reaches one arm behind his back, locks those thick fingers around my wrist and pulls my arm up, then does the same with the other. Suddenly, my wrists are shackled, and my lower body is immobilized. I tug my hands but can’t move them at all. I twist and turn against him, not because I want to get free…but because I feel trapped. And that’s exciting. He simply watches me with those curiously hypnotic eyes of his. Watches as I feel him grow thicker between my thighs. Watches as his weight grows heavier. Watches as I stop struggling, my breath coming in pants.

"You like being held down."

It’s not a question as much as a statement. He sounds confident. And there’s a knowledge in his eyes that resonates with a primal part of me I haven’t dared acknowledge.Primal part?What am I even thinking?I brush aside that spark of carnal awareness yawning in the pit of my belly and frown at him.

"And if I do?" I frown. "Is that okay?"

In reply, he whispers his fingertips down the column of my throat and my chest to where the neckline of my blouse dips. The hair on my forearms stands to attention.

He notices it, and a pleased expression comes into his eyes. "You’re so damn responsive, Cilla."

Hearing the nickname from his mouth makes my blood pressure shoot up.

And when he leans in and brushes his lips over mine, every part of me trembles. His mouth is firm, yet the kiss is tender. There’s so much feeling in it, so much yearning, so much worship that tears knock at the backs of my eyes. It feels like a promise. A plea. A hankering which zips down to the core of me and ignites my hunger. And as if he feels it, too, he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. He licks into the seam of my lips, and that hunger turns into a roaring fire.

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