She smacked his ass in frustration.
He didn’t hesitate after that. He pushed her thighs wider and slid into her, his cock a sweet stretch of blooming heat inside her. His forehead pressed into hers. “Oh, fuck.”
Yes. Exactly. She groaned along with him and canted her hips. Not willing to beg but absolutely down with showing him exactly how much she wanted it. She dug her nails into the flesh of his backside, knowing those cane marks probably still stung, and his thrusts got harder, his sounds dirtier.
Her sweet, beautiful masochist.
The bed squeaked beneath him, the sound of skin hitting skin filled her ears, and everything else faded to the background.
She let herself fall. Into the moment. Into the sensation. Into the intensity of it all.
He battered her with his body. She battered him back. Tussling and rolling and fucking with a level of abandon that would leave them both bruised and sore tomorrow. Her lamp got knocked to ground, sheets came unmoored, hair got pulled. Then they tumbled to the floor, his body breaking her fall. He slipped out of her in the process but quickly she settled on him again, riding him and crying out like she was the one getting beaten. They needed the violence, the anger at the situation braiding in with the desire, turning it into something other, something uniquely them.
And when she screamed out his name, her orgasm steamrolling her, she pressed his wrists down hard to the wood floors and fucked him like she’d die if she stopped. He came hard inside her, his release flooding her with warmth and his gritty, sexy sounds filling her head.
The moment was perfect.
And beautiful.
And all too fleeting.
Hello. Good-bye.
And as they settled next to each other in bed a while later, sleepy and sore and somber, she couldn’t say
a thing. What was left to be said? Everything. Nothing.
She waited until he was asleep and then pressed her palm over his heart, letting it all come crashing down on her, letting herself feel it, letting it be real.
I love you, Gibson Andrews.
And now I have to let you go.
She rolled over, put her back to him, and after a long, tearful staring contest with the wall, finally fell asleep.
When she woke again, the bed was empty. He was gone.
A few hours after the sun came up, a crew of workman showed up at her door, all expenses paid, and took over her remodel.
Gibson could fix her grandmother’s house.
Just not what was broken between them.
Chapter 11
Gibson leaned back in his chair at the head of the conference table and massaged his forehead, trying to chase away the throbbing headache that had plagued him for days now. The meeting had been a productive one. His coworkers had been enthused about an upcoming launch and on board with his plan. He should be pleased. But he couldn’t muster up one positive emotion. So he was good at what he did. Yay, go team. Who the fuck cared?
Right now, he didn’t. At least he’d made it through the meeting without letting his foul mood show. Just getting through days lately had become some kind of mental decathlon. Since he’d left Sam’s place two weeks ago, it’d been a fight to focus on anything.
He tried to bury himself in his work, but as soon as he took a breath or closed his eyes, all he could see was her. Remembering how it felt to be with her. Imagining what she’d suggested over and over again. Sometimes it made him so hot and hard, he worried he’d ignite. His darkest, most shameful fantasy being played out. Force. Violence. Being at Sam’s utter mercy. Being hers.
But the reality of it, what the consequences would be—that could send him into a cold, wanting-to-vomit anxiety attack. Every time he’d picked up the phone to call her, that had stopped him in his tracks. And once, he actually had gotten physically ill.
He was such a fucking coward. He had a key to be with the woman he wanted most in the world, and he couldn’t get out of his own goddamned way. Weak. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and when that didn’t help, he slammed his fist on the conference table, the sound echoing in the empty room.
“Um, Mr. Andrews? You have a second?”
Gibson opened his eyes and turned toward the door to find Nicolette, a recently hired publicity assistant, giving him a tentative smile. She’d been the talk of the floor when she’d gotten hired—a former contestant on one of those reality dating shows. She’d made it to the final three or something, which apparently was a big deal. Not that Gibson gave two shits about that. She had a good degree from a tough school and knew how to be in front of a camera if needed. But half the male staff in the building and a few of the women looked ready to start a fan club every time she walked by.