“Damn you, Raine, just fuck me.” He glares at me over his shoulder, long dark lashes throwing shadows over his angular face. “Fuck me hard.”
This is fucked up. I shouldn’t. I should push him off me, demand we talk. Demand the truth, and no more of these veiled lies and pretenses.
But he lifts off me a little, sliding off my dick until only the head is inside him, cutting off my breath. His face is turned to the side so that I can see his beautiful profile, the full lips, the feathery lashes, the shiny spikes of his dark hair.
Then he sinks down, slowly, rocking those slim hips, his ass milking my d
ick, and my back arches off the armchair.
Hot damn, this is… off the charts good, I’m gonna come, oh shit… The pressure crests, my body jerks, and I shoot, the release so fucking strong it’s painful. I hold on to him as I ride it, jaw tense against a cry, the pleasure ripping me apart, turning me inside out.
Whoa. I slump back, aftershocks running through my body, small quakes of pleasure. Jason shifts, and I moan as his ass massages my spent dick.
Can’t move. Can’t talk. I mean, fuck, I can barely breathe, my muscles turned to jelly and my eyelids too heavy.
Jason shifts again, and grunts something. I blink at him. He puts his hand over mine where it’s resting on his hip.
Well, not resting. More like gripping. And he’s trying to pry it off.
My fingers are cramped. I unclench them one by one, lift them off him, and I find red fingerprints underneath.
They mingle with older, yellowing bruises, and suddenly, I feel cold and sick.
What the hell have I done?
The question won’t leave me in peace as I pull on some old sweats and stumble into the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face, struggling to gather my thoughts, to ground myself, when he appears in the doorway.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, propping an arm on the doorjamb, frowning at me. He’s pulled his pants back on, too, and he’s standing there, dripping sexy bad-boy attitude, looking none the worse for wear from our armchair sex wrestle.
Still.
“I fucking hurt you. Bruised you.” It comes out as a hiss. “And you didn’t even enjoy the sex. I fucked up.”
He sighs but meets my gaze dead on. “I wanted it.”
“The fuck you did. Stop lying to me.” I grab the hand towel and dry my face, then throw it on the sink. “You need the fucking money. I’d have given it to you anyway.”
His brows go up. “What?”
Fuck, is it a mistake, opening myself like this to him? Showing him how much I want him, the things I’d do for him. He could take advantage of my weakness for him.
I steel myself.
“Fuck this.” He bows his head. “Look… I really wanted it, okay? Sure, I need the money, not gonna lie. But I don’t… I don’t normally want it. The sex, I mean.”
I stare. Is he telling the truth? There’s a glitter to his eyes, that telltale flush in his cheekbones. “You didn’t even get fully hard.”
“Stop… trying to understand my mind. We’re not the same.” He looks up. “I told you, normally I don’t get it up at all. This, today, was… good.”
He seems to have trouble getting out the words. A good sign, one more sign he’s telling the truth, or something else?
I stare at him, and he turns his face into his arm for a moment, hiding it. He looks so vulnerable like this.
“I don’t get it,” I mutter.
“What?”
“If you don’t enjoy sex, why the piercings?”