Page 77 of Conception
I move my hand between us, my fingers trembling as I brace his engorged flesh.
But he has other plans.
He brushes my hand aside and doesn’t waste another second before he guides himself into me, slowly, with measure, inch by magnificent inch until he’s filling me completely. He pauses for the briefest of moments, his eyes boring into mine.
“What the fuck am I going to do without you?” Hot, molten eyes blaze as he undulates his hips, thrusting deep. “What the fuck am I going to do without this?”
“Knox,” I whisper.
It’s his undoing.
The single syllable unleashes the fire that’s burning between us. Soft and slow and sweet lovemaking of the past melts away. It’s fierce, frenzied, frantic fucking.
I can’t keep up.
“Hold on, baby.”
My insides squeeze at the endearment and I do as he asked. I bring my knees up to accommodate him, pressing the soles of my feet to the bed. Knox groans as he embeds himself impossibly deeper. My arms ascend the muscled planes of his back and hold on for dear life. There’s no matching the way he furiously pumps in and out of me, as if he’s ramming into me just how powerful he is.
How powerful our connection is.
It’s a welcome reminder.
As if I need it.
This night, this time, is different. Even though he’s here with my physically, it’s as if he’s far away. Most nights, I get his eyes on mine, our fingers intertwined, and whispered words. Tonight, Knox’s focus is on getting his fill—and giving me mine.
Not that I’m complaining.
He fucks me with wild abandon, crashing into me, and I arch into him, tipping my hips as he delves deeper into me with each rhythmic push.
Knox isn’t just fucking me. He’s leaving his mark, branding me. He’s staking claim, ownership, even if only for tonight.
“Melia,” he groans, long and low, and with one final powerful thrust, he convulses and explodes inside me, his head falling to the pillow beside me as he abandons himself to pleasure.
His extraordinary climax triggers my own wild eruption, my breath coming in pants. I’m seized by a rush of sensation so intense that I dig my nails into his back as I cry his name out in satisfaction.
At the same time, a plethora of conflicting emotions collide in my head—and my heart. Desire. Longing. Exhalation. Anguish. Sorrow. Absolutely and totally wrecked.
The truth crashes over me along with pulsating waves of pleasure.
I will never get enough. I may never feel this passion again. I’m not the same woman I was three months ago, and it’s all because of him.
He’s transformed me into a wreckage no other man will be able to salvage.
I will never be the same.
“Jesus Christ, Melia,” he whispers.
Those are the same words I’ve heard muttered countless times this summer. This time, though, the evident strain in his voice elicits hot tears to flood my eyes. Knowing I may never have this again is paralyzing. My heart constricts and I blink away the tears that threaten to give away my truth.
“Usually I’m the one calling you god,” I tease, though I feel far from playful.
He lifts, his teasing eyes and his cocky smile evident in the moonlight that streams through the window. “Don’t ever forget it.”
As if I could.
I want to cry when he withdraws from me. I’ve never felt so empty. So hollow. And he’s not even gone yet.
