Page 13 of Feathers From the Sky

“Oh my God,” I say, trying to still my movements and failing as his fingers slide lower and his thumb presses into my clit. I lean forward, resting my forehead on his shoulder as his hand continues. “I’m sorry he did that to you,” I say, struggling to get the words out.

He shrugs. “I’m not. I wouldn’t be here with you if he didn’t.”

I press a kiss beneath his ear, my hands gently trailing over his chest. “Maybe I wasn’t so far off with my Zeus comment. He was also a philandering fuck.”

He chuckles as he slides a thick finger inside me. I gasp, and my hips buck as I press against his palm. With the way I’m sitting on him, it has to be difficult to maneuver, but he seems to manage.

I don’t love the idea of telling him about Josh, but I figure I should get it over with. My admission is no worse than his. Roman plants a kiss on my neck, so delicate it makes me shiver.

“My ex fucked my best friend right after my parents died.”

“Jesus.” His free hand slips into my hair at the base of my neck, pulling me back from him so he can see me. “That’s fucking evil,” he says, mouth a severe line.

“Clarke thinks I’m doing this shoot to make him jealous.” Roman’s fingers move again, a bit more forcefully than before.

“Are you?”

“I’m not,” I tell him. “Although, if he found out and got jealous, it would serve him right.”

“Good,” Roman grunts, and with remarkable speed, he lifts me and lays me down on the sofa. He leans over me and knees my legs apart. “Now that we’re done with the questions, I want to taste the sounds you make when you come. That alright with you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer as his lips dip to my jaw, his beard tickling my skin. He slips another finger into me, and I arch upward against him. Peppering kisses down my skin, he finds my nipple with his teeth and gently tugs as his thick fingers bring me to ruin.

“Wait,” I say. “This is—I shouldn’t—” I stammer before taking a deep breath, “I told myself I would take things slow.” I whimper as he slips his fingers out of me.

He lifts his head, looking at me with dark eyes and a dangerous curve of his lips. He is beautiful and terrifying. His cheeks are slightly rounded, an echo of boyhood bracketed by his neat beard. His hair looks smooth and silky—dark, but lighter than my own.

“Why do you want to take it slow?” he asks, and his tone is strange. Somehow commanding and yet soft all at once. As coaxing as curtains on a breeze, undulating as it pulls air out the window. It urges me to tell him the truth.

“I don’t want to get hurt,” I say before shaking my head and blinking. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“What makes you think I’ll hurt you? Is there something you’re hiding?”

That voice again. This time it is an ice cold glass of lemonade waiting for me on the back porch, the summer heat making the glass sweat, and I can practically taste the tart. It is unsettling but familiar. It makes my tongue itch.

“I always get hurt if I stay. If I find it in me to want, I’m the one who loses. There’s nothing to hide except how pathetic it makes me feel. How scared.”

I frown, and he climbs up my body, caging me in as he rests between my legs. He lowers himself and presses gentle lips to mine. A tingle spreads through me. How is it he is so familiar? How do his kisses feel like they come from someone who knows me more intimately than he does?

“Give me three dates,” he says. “Then, if you want, you run as fast as you can.” There is a glint in his eyes, a spark of something I want to bottle. I breathe deep, hoping to clear the fog from the way he’d spoken to me, but his scent envelops me. The peppermint lingers on his breath, and he smells like soap—clean.

“This counts as the first one,” I whisper, looking at him as he hovers over me. My hands are restless, already caressing his biceps. His answering grin tells me he knows he has won.

“Of course, Gwyn.” He sits up, pulling one of my knees up and resting it against his leg. When I reach for his arm, he pins my hand above my head. “Now where were we?” he asks as he leans over and pulls my other hand into his grasp. With one hand, he holds my arms above my head, and with the other, he roughly tugs my underwear aside and drags a finger through my wetness.

I groan, adjusting my hips to better his access. He moves, pressing his knee between my legs for leverage as he bends over me and steals the sound with his mouth. When he slides his fingers inside me, his thumb pressing down on my clit, the sound tearing from my throat is swallowed by a kiss. I feel his answering chuckle on my lips.

I can tell he is studying what I respond to and reacting accordingly. When I push my hips toward him, he increases the pressure, his rough thrusts making me yearn for more. I can imagine being thrown around by this man, and that turns me on beyond reason. There are positions I’ve never been able to try, not confident in my partner’s strength, that I think Roman would handle just fine.

He releases my hands and looks down at me as if what he said about the Greek goddess is true, as if I am some sort of priceless artifact. Even as he fucks me roughly with one hand, the other traces a delicate path down from my neck—over my breasts and stomach, down my thighs—before traversing up again to put his thumb over my bottom lip.

It’s a struggle to hold still the closer I get. I’m writhing, being pulled toward that blissful release of tension, and when a moan slips past, Roman seizes the opportunity. His thumb presses farther into my mouth, and I bite down. When I nip him, he makes a sound I recognize only as need.

“The sweet thing has teeth, huh?” he chides, and I snort.

“I’m not sweet,” I say as my panting increases.

“Oh, you don’t know how sweet you are, baby.” He rips his hand from between my legs, and I whimper, only for him to roughly press those fingertips past my lips. I don’t move for a second before I suck on his fingers, tasting the slight tartness which is me.

When he pulls away and slides them inside me once more, I gasp.

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