Page 50 of First Verse

“You’re coming with me,” is all the warning I have before he takes over from below, rolling his hips into mine with deep, devastating precision. Those flashes of heat from his piercing build and compound until they become an inferno that swallows me whole.

“I’m—” The rest of my words are a stuttering cry.

He groans. “Oh, fuck yes.” His hips lose their rhythm, jerking hard against me as his body goes taut. The sound he makes—the feel of him pulsing inside me—heightens my orgasm to catastrophic levels. The feeling is so intense reality slips away.

“Hey,” he whispers, “it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

My senses return and provide context for his low, tender tone. I’m cradled in his arms and sobbing into his neck.

Shit.

I sit up fast and wipe my face, sucking back the next sob before it can release. “Sorry. I, uh… Need to pee.”

Avoiding his searching eyes, I shift my legs to climb off him.

“Not so fast.” His arms flex and I fall back against his chest. “Tell me what’s going through your head.”

This is a dream.

A huge mistake.

You’ll hurt me.

Turn on me.

Leave me broken again.

“Nothing,” I mumble.

A quick twitch of his hips makes me gasp. He’s still inside me, hard enough that his thrust triggers an aftershock. I screw my eyes shut, fighting the instant rise of desire.

“Let me see those fairy eyes.”

The words trigger a three-year-old memory. A frisson of old hurt follows, tumbling fast into anger. When I look at him, his eyes widen, shoulders stiffening.

“What’s wrong?”

“We need to talk,” I say with forced calm. “But I can’t have this conversation with your dick in me. And I actually do need to pee. I don’t want a UTI.”

He studies my face another moment, then closes his eyes. When they open, they’re full of resignation. “I’ll get dressed and make us tea.”

He lets me go. I scramble off him, wincing as he slips out of me, and escape to my bathroom. After peeing, I use a washcloth to clean my wet thighs, then splash cold water on my face and study the woman in the mirror. I barely recognize her beneath a glowing complexion, swollen lips, love-marked skin, and tangled hair.

“What are you doing?” I whisper to her.

Her eyes hold no answers, only naive hopes.Shewants nothing more than to fall back into the fantasy, the pretend world where Wilder has never hurt me, where his offer backstage at Cathedral came with no strings, no history, no fears.

The woman in the mirrorhas been in control the last few hours, but the real me is back in the driver’s seat. Ironically, I have that brain-melting orgasm to thank. It broke my delusional bubble, reminding me of the many tears I’ve spilled over him.

I reach for my robe, then decide I need more than terrycloth between us for this conversation. A minute later, I’m armored in leggings, a sports bra, and a sweatshirt I stole from Rye that covers me to mid-thigh.

I find Wilder in the kitchen, sweatpants riding low on his hips. To my relief, he also pulled on a T-shirt. When he hears the creak of my footsteps on old floorboards, he glances over his shoulder.

His jaw clenches, nostrils flaring. “Please tell me that’s Rye’s sweatshirt.”

I love his jealousy.

I hate that I love it.

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