Page 50 of Misery
The mattress dips under his weight.
I stand between his knees, and his hands go to my waist immediately.
They’re careful, always so careful with me.
Like I'll shatter if he grips too hard.
"I won't break."
"I know." But his touch stays gentle, almost reverent. "Doesn't mean I want to risk it."
I climb onto his lap and straddle him, feeling him already hard beneath me through his jeans.
The evidence of how much he wants me makes heat pool low in my belly, makes me feel powerful in a way I haven't ever felt.
"I've never—" The words stick in my throat.
"I know."
"How?"
"You have tells." His hands slide under my shirt and find bare skin.
I shiver at the contact. "The way you kissed me at the cottage. Eager but uncertain. Like you wanted to devour me but didn't know how. The way you're trembling now."
"Maybe I'm just cold."
"You're not cold." His thumbs stroke my ribs and find the spots that make me gasp. "You're nervous. And turned on. And fighting yourself about both."
"I'm not fighting anymore."
"No?"
I’m so exposed, so vulnerable.
But the way he looks at me—like I'm art, like I'm holy, like I'mhis—makes me brave.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're perfect."
"I'm scarred." I touch the marks they left. The evidence of their violence on my skin.
"So am I." He traces the mark on my shoulder. The one that triggered this. His touch is so gentle it makes me want to cry. "Just proves you survived."
His mouth finds my neck.
Kisses that turn to teeth that turn to tongue.
I gasp, hips rocking involuntarily, Seeking friction.
The hardness of him against where I'm already aching makes us both groan.
"Have you ever come?" His question is blunt. Direct. No dancing around it.
Heat floods my face. Makes my chest blotchy. "By myself. Sometimes. When I can... when the memories don't intrude."
"Never with anyone else?"
"No."
