Page 22 of Martyr
Or at all.
I bethelpis a foreign word to him right now.
Knowing he had forgotten his shared past with Artemis is one thing—seeing his asshole behavior in person is quite another. Did her brother know how awful he was to her?
Her nails dig into my back, dragging my focus away from his treatment of her—and, ew, herbrother—back to what I’m doing. Which is still, apparently, driving her nuts.
“More,” she whispers.
I oblige. My abdomen ripples with every thrust, and I stay off her body enough to look at her. To shift onto one forearm and run my hand up her side and cup her breast. I brush my thumb over her nipple, tweaking the jewelry.
Her legs come up around me, and her heels dig into my ass. I lean down and kiss her.
Can’t help it.
Maybe she wants a fast fuck, but I feel like I’m reacquainting myself with her after far too long. Her lips are still under mine for a moment, almost long enough to let a trickle of doubt in, and then she comes to life. She wraps her arms around my neck and draws me down.
My weight presses onto hers, chest to chest. Her mouth opens, allowing our tongues to meet. The kiss, the way she feels around my cock, the warmth of her body—it’s all too much.
I could go back to thinking about her brother to hold off my orgasm…
Her teeth score my lower lip, and I groan. I roll my hips and hit a new position, and she whimpers.
Oh, fuck.
I chase that noise, repeating what I did before. I hit a spot deep inside her over and over again. She gives it to me. I take my hand from her breast and drift it down between our legs, feeling where I slide into her. Then up, to the bud of nerves just waiting to be touched.
Our kiss breaks off, our lips hovering, so close we’re still nearly touching. I open my eyes to find her already looking at me. Her dark-brown eyes are wide. She seems younger without the makeup. More like an innocent twenty-five-year-old who hasn’t been fucked over by the world on repeat.
Not that she looks like a harried old ladywithmakeup—this is just a kind of vulnerability I appreciate. Her makeup is a shield.
And right now, there’s nothing between us.
No condom either.
Ah, shit.
That thought alone seems to trigger some insane bodily response. My balls tighten, and the pleasure that is natural to chase—the tingling forewarning that it’s coming—starts at the base of my spine.
I pull out.
Try to anyway. But her heels keep me trapped, and her nails dig into the back of my neck.
“Tem, I’m not wearing?—”
“I’m on birth control. Don’t worry about it.” She rises and captures my lower lip in her teeth again, tugging.
I’m a fucking goner.
I work her clit with my finger, and I thrust into her with renewed vigor, chasing the high of climax. Both of ours.
She breaks before me. Her back arches, pushing her breasts into my chest, and her pussy clamps down on my cock. The sight of her unraveling, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open, does me in.
My head falls into the crook of her shoulder when I come, filling her up. My strokes turn lazy, slow. I milk out every last ounce of feeling, until I shudder and stop, resting inside her.
How am I supposed to leave her after that?
“Thank you.” She strokes my hair.
