Page 37 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

He loves me.

He stays.

Even when I don’t make it easy.

Even when I make it impossible.

He stays.

I make a decision and open the drawer again.

When he comes back in, I’m sitting on the bed. Our original rings are in my palm. His eyes land on them. His breath catches. And for once, he doesn’t speak first. I hold my hand out slowly. “I found this.”

He nods, watching me, but stays silent.

I smile. “You kept them.”

“Of course I did.” He mutters. “They’re our wedding bands, Rox.”

My pulse trips as I lick my lips. “Here’s what’s gonna happen…”

He freezes. His jaw tightens and he looks at me. I can tell by his face that he has no idea what I’m going to say.

“You’re going to lie down. Right now.” I say, standing.

He does. Immediately. Like a good boy. Like a man who knows I’m about to turn his whole world inside out.

I set the rings on the nightstand and crawl over him. I straddle him, settling my knees on both sides of his hips. Leaning in slowly, I lift his hand and spin the ring on his finger.

His eyes are locked on me. My hips are moving, gently, teasingly. His shorts get soaked from the desire leaking from my pussy lips as they cocoon his rigid length through the fabric. He swallows. I bring his hand to my mouth and kiss the skin just above his ring before swirling my tongue along the digit and sucking it into my mouth. My tongue on his ring finger mimics the movement of my hips on his straining cock.

I release it with a pop. “You never took this off… and you kept the originals.”

His eyes burn. “Yup.” His nostrils flare.

“You’re mine, Chase West. You never stopped being mine.” I settle his hand on my chest, over my heart. His cock jumps as I continue to slowly grind against him. My hand trails over his throat, lightly tapping the erratic pulse at the base of his neck. He groans and his hips lift. I smile and drag my hands over the muscled arms covered with tattoos that drive me wild. Leaning down, I flick his nipple with the tip of my tongue.

“Rox…” His eyes are locked on me.

I slide my hands down his chest and over the tight muscles of his abs. He jerks and inhales quickly. His teeth are clenched, and his hands are curled into fists but still resting on my chest. I wrap my hand around his length and stroke him through the drenched material. He bucks and I moan, “No one else gets to taste you, touch you, ruin you like I do, Chase.” I stroke him again. He’s barely breathing.

I squeeze him. “Say it,” I gutturally demand.

His fingers dig into my thighs. “Baby, I’m yours.”

“Say it again.” I stroke him again.

“Roxy—”

I grind down again. Slow.

He pants.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” he growls. “Always.” He flips me, somehow getting his shorts off before my back hits the bed. Grabbing my knees, he parts my legs and surges in. He fucks me, hard, relentless. My ankles are on his shoulders. I’m bouncing all over the bed, wailing as he jackhammers into me. There is no sweetness. This is raw, primal. It isn’t sex. It’s claiming. Conquering.

It’s war yet we’re both winning.

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