Slave to the Rhythm (33 page)

“It’s fine,” I said calmly. “I have an IUD. I can’t get pregnant.”

There was a long pause, the night drawing out the moment.

Then his arms tightened around me again. “Laney, I . . .”

I stroked his strong forearms as they held me.

“No, not now. In the daylight—that’s when we’ll work things out. Now, in the darkness, we’ll just hold each other. Tonight, let’s believe the fairytale.”

His arms relaxed a fraction and I felt his soft lips in my hair.

All the worries, all the fears were silenced within that deep quiet of my aunt’s bedroom, one cold Chicago night.

Light was filtering through the thin curtains when I woke up. I was immediately aware of the large solid body behind me, not least because Ash was holding my boob and his erection was pressing into my ass.

What had happened last night, now, in the daylight, it felt awkward.

I was about to try and slide out of the bed without waking him, when Ash’s long fingers flexed as he swam toward wakefulness, squeezing my breast gently. I gasped, and he stroked my hard nipple, moving his hips in a rocking motion.

I turned in his arms, and for a moment his eyelids drooped and he let out a long sigh. He looked up again, watching me carefully as his fingers slid under my shirt, stroking the soft skin between my small breasts, then closing his hand over the warm flesh.

A sigh of pleasure turned into a moan of arousal and that sparked a fire in Ash.

“Last night was too fast,” he murmured, his voice husky in my ear. “I want to make love to my wife.”

Ash

I’d never used a woman the way I’d used Laney last night, and I was ashamed. It had just been fucking, proving to myself that I wasn’t what the bastard had tried to make me. I was no one’s bitch. I’d rather die. And I mean that in the literal put-a-gun-to-my-head-and-pull-the-fucking-trigger way.

But even in my half-waking, half-dreaming state, it wasn’t the violent crash of urgent, thoughtless physical release that I’d had with Yveta: it was more. I just wasn’t sure why or how much more. It didn’t make sense, but it did. We weren’t a match, but we were. We weren’t in love, but we were married.

I respected her, admired her, and she deserved more than heated rutting at the dark end of a nightmare. And if all I had to give her was a warm body with a frozen heart, then I’d make it the best I could.

I kissed down her shoulder and arm, turning her so she was on her back, staring up at me. Surprise became desire, turning her eyes smoky, and she took my hand and pressed it between her legs. Her gray eyes held mine as my hand slipped from the waistband of her pajamas. My fingers met the soft cotton between her thighs, already damp.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice soft and aching.

“Beautiful wife, what do you like?” I asked, kissing down her neck as her back arched, pressing her covered breasts against my bare chest.

I paused, meeting her eyes, seeing a faint flush of embarrassment.

She laughed awkwardly. “Just the usual stuff, you know?”

“Hmm, well, this morning I will make your body our playground, yes? Stop me if there’s something you don’t like.” I was serious for a moment. “I don’t have anything. All I have is my body. I like fucking. I’m good at it. Last night wasn’t . . . I want to make you feel good.”

And it’s all I have to offer.
Because sex makes you feel alive. Because you’re so fucking sexy and you don’t even know it, because you’re stunning, so brave, and because I know we’ll be amazing together.

“This is for you, Laney.”

“I liked the massage you gave me,” she said, smiling up at me, her cheeks pink.

“But that sent you to sleep,” I argued, puzzled.

“Not before it turned me on,” she grinned with a glint in her eye.

I remembered how that night had ended, with her watching me jerk off.

Smiling, I undressed her slowly—far too many clothes for what I wanted to do. Then I rolled her onto her stomach, pouring her favorite body lotion onto my hands, warming it before I placed a dot on every freckle across her back.

“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to see over her shoulder.

“Playing,” I answered. “Joining the dots. I wonder what picture this will make. Hmm, looks like a sexy woman.”

She gave a husky laugh that made my cock twitch. Greedy bastard would have to wait—this was about Laney.

Although, childish as it sounds, I couldn’t resist using the warmed lotion to write
Mrs. Novak
across her back. Then I started at her shoulders, smoothing out the tight muscles as she moaned and groaned. My dick was making it hard to concentrate, a third guest at the party, rubbing down her spine, dragging through the lotion as I worked her muscles.

I took the easy way out and headed down to her feet, pressing my thumbs into her soles. But even there, the noises she made, the warm scent of her skin, it was driving me to a new level of madness. I glanced down at my dick, unsurprised to see the head leaking. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the way my balls were tightening and begging for release.

My thumbs dug into the back of her calves. She moaned again and my dick jerked in sympathy.

Her pert little ass made me lose it. Those two soft globes were more than a flesh and blood man could stand.

I pulled her hips upward, forgetting to warn her, so she face-planted in her pillow. Her muffled words barely made me pause as I pushed the tip of my pinkie finger into her little puckered hole.

“I don’t do that!” she snorted, her cheeks flaming as she pulled the pillow from her face and glared at me.

I slid my finger in and out slowly, raising an eyebrow as her mouth dropped open and a soft “Oh!” rounded her lips.

“Just playing, my wife,” I said, leaning forward to kiss the back of her neck.

I couldn’t help wanting to say that again:
my wife
. The words intrigued me, like a new toy that came without instructions.

“Well,
my husband,
” she said, a hint of steel in her voice, “you’re not getting anal: exit only! We clear?”

I laughed, easing my finger in a little deeper while circling her clit at the same time.

My husband
—even more intriguing.

“Very clear, my love. I’m just playing. Doesn’t that feel good?”

“Yes, very,” she sighed. “But, I’m not . . .”

I slid my index finger into her wet pussy and her words faded away. Her back arched and she shook her honey-colored hair over her shoulders, pushing her ass against my hand so my finger sunk in further.

I could smell the musk in the air as her arousal, my arousal raised the temperature in the chilled room.

There was so much more I wanted to do, to please her, pleasure her.

I slid flat on the bed and tongued her from behind. A sharp gasp outlined her surprise, and I tasted her sweet little pussy for the first time, dipping my tongue inside, circling her clit.

She surprised us both by coming immediately, her small body shaking, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

She collapsed onto her stomach, breathing heavily, then she giggled—such a beautiful sound.

“That was . . . unexpected!”

I stretched out next to her, pulling her heated body against mine, and letting my lips drift up behind her ear.

Even though my cock had been stiff for the last 30 minutes, I was content to rest next to her, pulling the quilt over our cooling bodies.

I was almost asleep when I felt her warm, wet lips close over the head of my cock.

“No!”

I pushed her shoulders roughly, knocking her backward.

From peaceful bliss, I was suddenly back in that Las Vegas bathroom, Sergei on his knees trying to arouse my flaccid dick, Oleg gripping my arms.

I pushed away the darkness, pulling myself toward the light—and turned to see Laney’s frightened face.

“Laylay, I . . .”

Horror, the horror at what I’d done, nearly done, what had been done to me—I retched. Laney shot out of bed, managing to grab a small trashcan just in time. I gripped the cold metal and emptied my stomach. Again and again.

I was only vaguely aware that she’d left the room, but then I felt a cool washcloth against my feverish forehead, my cheeks, my mouth.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I tried to shake my head because she had nothing to be sorry for. It was all me—I was the fucked up one. Not her. Never her.

I lay back on the bed, exhausted and depressed. I’d just wanted to please her, to feel normal, and now everything was a thousand times worse.

But she didn’t leave in silent disgust as I expected. Instead, she pulled the quilt over both of us, resting her head on my arm and gently stroking my chest.

“No, it’s my fault,” she said quietly. “I should have known better than to take you by surprise. I
do
know better—it won’t happen again, Ash.”

I sunk further into the black cloud that always hovered nearby. A man should be able to have a beautiful woman give him head without freaking out. I threw my arm over my face, humiliated again.

The torture in my mind was far worse than the physical pain had been. My armor was gone, my nerve endings exposed, skin raw.

I felt Laney’s soft fingers tugging at my wrist.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said. “You’re beating yourself up about this. Don’t. We just have to work on our communication.” She paused. “Now that we’re married.”

I let her tug my arm to my side and saw her smiling at me carefully.

I couldn’t summon up the energy to smile back. Instead, I closed my eyes, letting the frustration wash over me.

“Why are you doing this, Laney? Since you met me, everything has gone wrong for you.”

She paused, perhaps thinking, turning it over like a stone as she looked for the truth.

“No, it’s just life,” she said simply. “And having you in my life—it makes it better. I know that’s not part of the plan, but I can’t help it.”

The plan
. The great plan. Married for a piece of paper, living together for convenience. God, I was a fool.

I sighed, caught by the great lie.

“My body knew I wanted you before my brain did. I was numb for so long—you’ve brought me back to life. You’ve saved me over and over.”

She smiled.

“We’ve done everything backward: we met, we married, we had sex. That’s our story, Ash. I’ve given up trying to understand it.”

She kissed my chest, her lips soft and warm, and my shameful body reacted again. And this time I had to have her. That’s when any semblance of gentleness, of finesse, fled.

Our eyes locked and then she launched herself at me, kissing me hard.

For a half a second I was too stunned to react. And then I did.

I’d thought about kissing her every hour of every day since our wedding nearly three weeks ago. That was a fucking hot kiss, I’d felt the passion inside her, but I didn’t think she really wanted me. I’d seen her looking, but that’s all she’d ever done. And after rehearsals the other day, with the excuse that Sarah and the girls were watching, I’d done what I’d been wanting to ever since; taken what I’d needed.

Even as her nails dug into my scalp and my dick hardened, I kept thinking,
This is my wife! I’m kissing my wife!

It was hard, but not fast. It was intense, but not fevered. It was my balls slapping against her ass as she clung to my body, her legs clamped to my waist. It was me inside her, and her all around me.

And when we came, it felt like it meant something.

We lay on our backs breathing hard, her chest pink from arousal, her neck and chin red from my stubble.

Then she turned on her side to look at me.

“Ash,” she said softly, stroking her fingers down my chest.

I knew she could feel my heart pounding, and not from the sex we’d just shared. She’d caught me off guard, and she knew it.

“It’s okay. You’re safe.” She paused. “Can you tell me what you were dreaming about last night . . . and earlier?”

I threw her a dark look, refusing to give in.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I want to know you—everything about you—good and bad.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Why not?”

I sighed and stared at the ceiling, hoping that the right words would magically appear. I glanced across, meeting her eyes.

“You’ll look at me differently.”

“I won’t,” she said softly.

“You will. Of course you will. You should. I don’t like to think about it—ever. I don’t want you to have that shit inside your head.”

I sprang to my feet and started pacing up and down in the tiny space, feeling caged.

That was how I coped when I was upset or angry—my body needed movement. But showing her how twisted up inside I really was . . . she looked like I was breaking her heart.

“Hey,” she called quietly, holding out her hand to me.

I halted my pacing and turned to stare at her, hoping she wouldn’t see the dark despair, the grief, the disgust.

I took her hand, holding it gently within my own. Her finger joints were a little inflamed today and her skin felt hot to the touch. Despite the sex we’d had earlier, I felt the need to handle her as if she was delicate, precious . . . and when I looked at her, I wanted her to see that she was beautiful and desirable.