Page 96 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
“I . . . I . . .”
“Yes or no, Chloe. We have to talk about this. You need to tell me what you like. I need to know your limits.”
My heart pounds wildly, drunkenly, as if it can’t decide whether to burst or faint. “I don’t do kinky. I don’t do Fifty Shades stuff. I’m . . . I’m . . . not into that.”
He falls still. His lowered voice is full of concern. “Are you worried I’ll hurt you? Are you afraid I’ll try to push you into something you don’t want?”
I have to admit the truth. “No. I trust you. I’m just . . . it’s embarrassing. I’m not used to talking about what I like. No one’s ever asked, to be honest. It feels a little weird.”
After a moment, he relaxes. He begins to thrust in and out of me again, gently, controlling his speed, holding me steady with that strong arm wrapped around me.
“Don’t be embarrassed. I only want to make you feel good, whatever that means to you. I won’t ever do anything you’re not comfortable with. But that means communicating with me. So if you want something, you have to ask for it, baby.”
The room is almost unbearably warm. Everything smells like hot wax and sex. My breasts bounce with every move of his hips. His muscular thighs bunch and flex around mine. Candlelight dances over the walls, and I’m slowly going mad with passion.
Subtly, I arch against his chest, tilting my hips, giving him a better angle to slide inside. He’s so big, stretching me open. It feels like paradise. I love the way he claims me. The way he owns me. The way he takes control.
Cheeks flaming, my eyes squeezed shut, I say, “Yes, I want you to do it again. But not too hard, okay?”
I feel the tremor that passes through him. His fingers dip lower between my legs, to where our bodies meet, and he exhales a rough burst of air. “How about like this?”
He raises his hips again, lifting me from the water, and slaps my exposed pussy. I twitch, moaning. It feels so good I almost come, but I’m still trying to be good for him, I’m still trying to hold still, hold back, hold on to my sanity.
“Harder or softer?” His voice has gone all low and rough. His breathing is deeper, more irregular.
“A little softer. And . . . more.”
He stretches out his long legs, braces his feet against the wall above the tub, thrusts into me with more force, and gently slaps my pussy four times in quick succession.
My reaction is instant and violent.
I scream. My body bows toward the ceiling. I come, hips jerking, muscles contracting, blindly exploding with pleasure.
Beneath me, A.J. gasps. “Fuck! Angel! Fuck!”
He loses control. He grabs my hips and pumps into me fast and hard, riding out my orgasm as I writhe on top of him, completely helpless to stop any of the wanton sounds or movements I’m making. My cries echo off the walls.
When he bucks and groans and I feel a spreading warmth deep inside me, I’m still coming furiously. Water flies everywhere. The candles on the floor nearest the tub are extinguished with a hiss in a hail of drops. Smoke drifts lazily up into the air, and hangs in widening coils near the ceiling.
It doesn’t occur to me until much later that he isn’t wearing a condom.
For the next two days, A.J. and I exist in a strange and beautiful kind of suspended animation. It feels as if all the clocks in the world have stopped ticking, that for us time itself holds its breath.
The hotel becomes our lovers’ playground.
We make popcorn the old-fashioned way in the large downstairs kitchen, frying hard kernels of corn and butter in a sizzling cast iron skillet on the six-burner stove, laughing and ducking when they explode. We put the hot buttered popcorn in paper bags and take them to the screening room, where we eat while watching old movies, the plush upholstered chairs we sit in draped with clean sheets so we don’t get covered in years’ worth of dust. We play hide-and-seek in the vast, dim attic, crouching behind antique armoires, peeking around floor-standing mirrors, darting in and out of the forgotten remains of decades of prior owners.
A.J. always finds me. Or maybe I always let him. Because I know when I’m caught there will be hugs and laughter and sweet, sweet kisses that quickly turn hot.
We spend hours exploring the library, the laundry, the overgrown gardens, all the upstairs guest rooms and downstairs storage rooms. In the subterranean parking garage, we discover one entire room A.J. didn’t even know existed dedicated solely to broken televisions, cracked mirrors, and lamps missing their lampshades, relics from when the property had paying guests. In the cavernous ballroom with the vaulted ceilings and grand piano, I learn A.J. knows how to play more than drums.
“What, you thought I was a one-trick pony?” he asks with a wink while I sit transfixed beside him on the wood bench, watching his big, tattooed hands bring Mozart to life with an effortless dexterity that leaves me awed.
“Where did you learn to play the piano?”
“Church.”
He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world, as if everyone learns to play Mozart in church. The most interesting thing I learned in church was how to sit still for long periods of time without falling asleep.
