Page 55 of Faded Rhythm

“I like it slow,” I rush out. “Sensual.”

He presses his dick against my pelvis and it feels like heaven.

“But sometimes, I like to be treated like a slut. You know what I mean? Fucked hard and fast. Getting my hair pulled. Talking shit to me. Maybe…degrading me a little bit? But in like a loving but sexy way…” I trail off. “I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

“I see that.” He nips my bottom lip. “Hearing it wasn’t much easier.”

“What doyoulike?”

He kisses my neck. “I’m easy. I like bustin’ a nut.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” I say, smiling. “You’re like…a robot. A machine.”

“Your husband ain’t fucked you in months, so I bet you’re well acquainted with machines.”

“So you’re an asshole, too.”

“I’m whatever gets you off, sweetheart.”

I stare into his eyes. “You have too many clothes on.”

Something flashes across his face. He looks…vulnerable. But it’s gone just as quickly as it came, and he sits up, putting more space between us.

He lifts his shirt over his head and I’m quickly reminded. That’s his weakness. His sore spot. His insecurity. My eyes want to zero in on that imperfect part of him, but I hold his gaze, never wavering. He looks grateful.

The boxers come off next. I don’t even pretend I don’t wanna see the dick. Even in the dark, I see it’s just as monstrous as it felt.

When he settles on top of me again, there’s no more talking. No more negotiation or demand. Just raw, animal attraction. He pushes inside me with no fanfare, and the stretch is the perfect mix of pleasure and pain. I grip his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, eyes wide as he fills me completely.

“Oh my God,” I gasp.

He doesn’t move right away. He just stays there, buried deep, his forehead kissing mine, panting like he’s just run a race.

“Fuck. You don’t even know how good you feel, do you?”

Sadly, I don’t. Brett made sure of that. And maybe that’s part of the problem here. Maybe that’s what’s making me so desperate and thirsty. I don’t think I could survive sleeping next to another man who didn’t want me.

“Fucking perfect,” he mumbles into my neck. “I knew it.”

“Go,” I beg. “Please. Stop torturing me.”

He pulls out almost all the way, then slams back into me with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs. And then again. And again.

I’m gone.

It’s over.

I could die right now in his arms.

Then he stops. His hand tangles in my hair, his lips finding the hollow of my throat.

“I’m not gentle,” he says. “I don’t know how to do this halfway.”

“I don’t want halfway,” I say. “I want all of you.”

My eyes drop, finding his scars, barely visible in the darkness. Then, he moves again, and they get lost in the slide of his body against mine, the slap of skin against skin, the way he grinds into me, hitting the perfect spot with every thrust.

I cry out, once, twice, more times than anyone could count. He moans with me, grabs my thighs, pushes them higher, thrusting deeper.

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