Page 42 of Resilient Love

His chuckle is deep and humourless. He trails his tongue across his full bottom lip before answering. “I did, didn’t I?” he asks, clearly amused with himself. “Fine, Elise. You want to be heard so badly, tell me, what is it you want me to do to you?”

I roll my eyes, but I know this game. And reluctantly,I enjoy it.I’d die before admitting that to him though.

“Fuck me hard and fast until there are tears in my eyes and cum dripping down my legs,” I deadpan.

His chin presses to his chest, a low rumble of approval vibrating through him, and when his eyes meet mine again, there’s fire lit within them. But this time, it’s not from the fireplace.

He doesn’t waste any more time, crushing his body to mine, bringing his mouth above my bounding pulse, nipping the skin, and sucking it into his mouth. “I’m about to make youmy depraved little slut. I hope you enjoy screaming my name because I can guarantee, whoever has you next won’t be the one you’re thinking about.”

And with his last word, his hips plunge forward, burying himself in me. My tits are bouncing on my chest, my core clenching tighter as he pounds into me relentlessly, and if I weren’t so busy doing exactly as he said I would, I’d have a smile on my face.Finally,one dick that can satiate me,and I can’t even keep him.

“Rafa, yes!” I scream. “Comme ça...” I plead, my tone breathy as he stretches me, lighting every nerve fibre in my body.

“So fucking hot,” he grits out. “The dirtiest little slut for me.”

My mouth parts, and my head rolls back as I keen against him. Everything feels hot and too tight, like I could implode at any moment, a writhing mess of emotion-packed particles.

His movements don’t slow as he thrusts into me, his dick curving enough to rub beneath my clit, making my legs tremble.

His grip loosens on my wrists, dragging down my arms before he tucks them under me, hoisting me up his body as he sits up. He clutches me to his chest, standing and pumping his hips into me.

The change in angle iseverything.

My back hits a wall, and his relentless, punishing thrusts don’t stop. I grip his shoulders, meeting his movements as I lower myself further onto him, crying out as he meets me every time, thrust for thrust.

It’s too much.

My core winds tightly, tears spill down my cheeks, and heat grips my throat as his hand snakes between us, palming my aching pussy.

Rafael’s fingers wrap around my clit, twisting and driving me over the edge. “Rafael!” I cry out, my head hitting the wall behind me.

I feel like I’ve fallen over a cliff, and I’m hitting every massive boulder and sharp edge as I make my descent back to solid ground.

His teeth dig into my shoulder, my mind still hazy as stars burst behind my eyes, and my breathing begins to slow. His body tenses. and he groans, pumping his hips into me, his movements fatigued and erratic.

When he’s finished, he doesn’t pull out of me until he’s dropped me into the centre of the bed, onto the deep-green duvet cover. Small beads are sewn into the fabric in beautiful swirls, pressing into my bum in the most uncomfortable manner, but I don’t have the energy to get up. My limbs are nothing more than gelatine, my body useless for the moment.

I watch intently as he tugs the condom off, tying it and depositing it into the bin before heading into the loo. He leaves the door wide open as he turns the sink on, grabbing a washcloth from the shelf. I watch as he cleans himself up, his round, perky ass even more perfect from his side profile.

Fuck, I love rugby.

When he’s done, he grabs another cloth and a towel, turning off the bathroom light and returning to me.

“Open your legs,peligrosa,” he says, his voice hushed. After the first time he called me that, I asked Letty what it meant and was not the least bit surprised to learn that he was calling me trouble from the very start.

“Can’t, no strength,” I whine, making no effort to move my still-twitching muscles.

He rolls his eyes, rewarding me with a lopsided smirk as he grips my calf, lifting my leg and dropping it several inches over, opening me up to him. He takes a seat on the edge of the mattress, swiping the warm, wet cloth over my thighs and then between my folds. The action is tender, and something aches in my chest, but I can’t pinpoint the cause of the offending reaction.He uses the dry cloth to pat my damp skin, dropping both wash rags on the floor before climbing in beside me.

“They should really rethink these beads,” I grumble after a few minutes. Rafael chuckles beside me, lifting up to grip the top of the duvet from either side of my waist, wiggling it down under me. The sharp edges of the embroidered beads make me wince, but just as quickly as the pain comes, it’s gone, replaced by the satisfying warmth of soft, smooth sheets and a pillowtop mattress beneath me.

He lies back down, and we continue to stare at the ceiling, catching our breath, and as the high of what we did dissipates, I’m hit with the swirling dread of many, much less enjoyable emotions. I try to work them out, untangling the frayed, knotted edges of each sentiment, much like my therapist had instructed over and over again.

The thicker, longer thread is more like a rope. It’s the largest, most foreboding of the emotions warring inside me. I slide that one out from the rest, imaging it as if it were an actual rope. This one has a heaviness to it, making my chest clench, my stomach twist, and pins and needles stab at my limbs. I recognise it as anxiety, fear, and dread.

The next is a thin little thing, clear like fishing line, difficult to dismantle from the rest. It’s transparent, ever-present despite my efforts, but it snaps easily after years of practice. This one is easy to identify guilt. I’m remorseful for getting involved with someone who I shouldn’t have. Someone my dad cares for. Someone I have no place being involved with because it’s selfish. Many things could go wrong. He could lose his position as our coach, the same way Coach Lyon had, and as much as Rafael seemed to hate the job at the start, there’s been a clear shift. He’s now the first person to cheer us on, unable to stand still on the sidelines as he screams at the top of his lungs during every gameand practice, fighting with the refs when he thinks they’ve made a bad call.

Dad might be upset, maybe even blame himself if I get hurt because he was the one who pushed Rafael into the position. My teammates could be let down if they don’t have a coach and the season is a wash. My career could be over before it even started if I’m caught in a scandal with my coach. And who knows what would happen to Rafael’s career after something like that.

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