“Yes,” he growls again as my flesh yields. “You feel…” His eyes glisten in the darkness, his fingers tightening on mine as he grinds against me. “You feel like mine.”
I whimper my affirmation as he pulls back, delivering a demanding, almost bruising kiss. With a snap of his hips, he drives forward again, filling me so completely, so deliciously, as he comes into me and over me again and again. I shift, lifting my hips as our bodies silently communicate. I will take and he will give. But as his teeth press to the curve of my shoulder with a rasping groan, I know he is mine as much as I am his.
Pulling me back, he moves onto his knees, pulling my thighs over his. I moan loudly as his thumb slides over my swollen clit.
“Look at us darling, moving as one.” His words, his touch, his avid expression makes everything inside me contract. It feels so good.
He pulls me up against him, seating me fully on his cock, changing the angle instantly. Wrapped in his arms, I begin to undulate against him when his grip tightens, urging me to move harder, faster.
“That’s it, darling girl. Ride me.”
And I do. One, two, three, I slam myself against him when his hand twists in my hair, my body bowing as he thrusts up into me. The sensation is too much, the friction, the sheer size of him pounding into me. I can barely breathe as my body tightens around him in pulsing, silvery bursts. I choke back a cry, my whole body trembling as pleasure rips thought me. My whole body stiffens, pinned between two points, as the moment hits. The peak—such bliss, overlayed by his hoarse whispers of encouragement against my lips.
“Fuck, yes. Like that. That’s so good—fuck. Oh fuck.”
Everything in the world disappears. I give in. I give up. I fall apart. I’d surely float away if I weren’t grounded by the feel of his hands on my hips. Niko rasps my name, bucking up into me, the expression on his face pained as he follows me.
39
Isla
I am deeply flawed.
So deeply flawed as I watch Niko press his palms to the tiles, lifting himself effortlessly from the pool—a deeply flawed pervert as my insides clench at this blatant display of pure masculinity. I’d woken a little while ago alone, dragged from sleep by familiar squeals and splashes and yells, the phantom of his words echoing in my head.
With love one can live even without happiness.
Ask me if I love.
Ask me who I love.
I’d be a fool to dare to believe him. Wouldn’t I? A fool to think he’d loved me in all the time between then and now.
Pushing the thoughts to the back of my head, I’d found my robe draped along the end of the bed, guessing Niko must’ve placed it there. I mean, I hoped he had and not one of the children. Because Mummy doesn’t usually sleep naked, sprawled across the bed. I’d slipped it on and made my way out onto the balcony to find the three men in my life splashing in the pool. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, I’d quickly showered and slipped my bikini on to find breakfast of fruit and pastries about to be served on the terrace.
I really could get used to this life.
“Uncle Van, come back!” Archie calls from the water. “I want another race!”
“Soon,” Niko promises with a wave. “You’ve worn me out.”
“Because you are an old man!” Archie bounces in the shallows with each yelled word, and I laugh.
The world is blocked out by the sun-warmed bulk of him as he grips the armrests of my sunbed, showering me in droplets of water as he presses a kiss to my head.
“Need a break, old man?”
“Need a spanking?” Pulling back, he takes a seat on the sunbed next to mine, his body turned my way.
“No, thank you.” My stomach flutters, though I muster a little dignity in my response when he rakes a hand through his hair, slicking the damp strands back. Muscles pop and flex in his arms and chest, the flutter’s tempo and depth increasing.
I am so very deeply flawed.
Ask me if I love. Ask me who I love. His words seem to repeat on a loop in my head.
“I think you deserve one for flaunting yourself in that tiny bikini.” His gaze glitters over me, tightening my nipples. “I see the way you’re arching your back.”
“I am not.” Heat washes more than just my cheeks.
“Twisting in your seat. Does the pressure help that needy ache?”
“Van!” I sound scandalized, but what I am is inexplicably throbbing.
“Your know what would help with that?”
“Stop it,” I whisper, my tone more like go on.
“My tongue.”
“You are the worst.”
“You’re looking a little pink. Perhaps I should help you with your sunscreen.”