“My love for you isn't soft and tender. I'm not going to tell you how beautiful you are and cry while we come. This is too intense for that. The way I need you is scary, and sometimes it makes me fucking crazy. It's violent and possessive and comes from such a deep place inside of me that I know it would be easier to die than get you out from under my skin.” His eyes nearly glowed with their earnestness. His full lips slightly parted as he drew in ragged breaths, not from exertion but from the emotion he proclaimed.
“Mason!” I screamed, my pussy tightening around him in an attempt to wring an orgasm from both of us.
“Yes, Claire,”
“Oh god, oh god. I'm going to come!”
“Tell me,” he demanded, squeezing my throat tightly enough that the faintest buzz of lightheaded pleasure trickled through.
“God, I fucking love you!” I screamed, toppling over the edge into mind-altering, screaming bliss.
“I am yours,” he answered right before his cock thickened. He let out the most gloriously masculine groan of pleasure as he pumped me full of his cum, love, and possession.
Chapter 17
Mason
Wearrivedbackatthe house, and I had never been so full of conflicting emotions. The unrestricted joy I felt at having Claire as my wife was a happiness that nothing could touch, but fuck if the world wasn't trying to take this from me too. I planned to drop Claire at the house and let her change while I investigated Mila's apartment; however, she wasn't having that. My wife insisted I help her out of her dress and into something comfortable so we might look together.
Claire and I entered Mila's apartment, finding Victor and James scouring through her belongings.
“Where's Emma?” Claire asked James.
“She's in the house. Fucking shame this happened today. I think all that wedding romance softened her up.”
“Yeah, you getting your dick wet is what we should be worried about right now,” Vick muttered angrily.
James was usually such a carefree guy, he didn't show his temper often, but it was apparent now in the depths of his red-brown eyes, “I'm not thinking with my dick, brother, but maybe that’s just me.”
“What the fuck are you trying to say?” Victor looked like he was about ready to murder him.
“Nothing, Vicky, nothing at all.”
“No fighting. Get to work,” I demanded, stepping between them before it came to blows, “We need to figure out what happened here.”
The three of us combed through the apartment Mila and Casey had shared while Claire stood in the corner and watched. Her brown eyes looked nearly black with her somber expression. She wore a pair of leggings and a soft gray sweater that made her look homey and edible.
Her sweet brow was puckered in concern and thought, but there was a little smile around the corner of her lips that wouldn't fade entirely. She felt the same joy I did, which would be enough to get us through this.
“Her clothes are all packed,” Victor called from the bedroom.
“We know, Vicky,” James answered in a soothing voice I rarely heard out of him. “Most of her things are.”
Victor had taken personal responsibility for Mila which really didn't belong to him. That's how he was surviving his guilt over Casey's death. His behavior would make me nervous if I didn't think he could handle the pressure.
“The place is fucking wrecked, though,” Victor continued.
“I know she was mad, especially at me,” Claire spoke with a little catch in her throat. “I threatened to lock her in here. I wouldn't be surprised if she left. But it would surprise meifshe did all this,” she gestured around herself to the ruined room. The couch was overturned and covered with boot marks.
The cabinets were open, and random cups and bowls were thrown and smashed around the room. That could have been defensive or destructive. It was damn hard to say. We looked around the space for hours, opening drawers and looking for clues, but we did not find much that explained what happened.
Claire disappeared at one point, and when she returned, that little smile was missing, and her usually warm skin was deathly pale. “Someone took her.”
“How do you know?” Victor pushed past James and me to get closer to Claire and whatever lead she might have.
She held up a picture of a baby. It was a polaroid, worn and aged. The image was so yellowed it was hard to make out the features. The baby lay on a dirty towel or a threadbare blanket, “This is her daughter. She wouldn't have left on her own without this.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.