Olivia
Unable to sleep with the wind howling against the shutters and the rain hammering the roof, I toss in bed and stare at the bright green numbers of the alarm clock glaring back at me. Though it’s pouring outside, my room is suffocating, hot and sticky. It’s unbearable. I jump up and stalk toward the French doors, swinging them wide. I startle when I see him on the balcony, leaning up against one of the thick white columns, no shirt, his hair mussed, wearing only a pair of light gray sleep pants. He stiffens. Despite the noise of the rain bucketing down, I know he hears me.
August turns to face me. Wild blue eyes roaming hungrily over my body. He makes no attempt to look away, and I don’t try to cover myself even though I know he can see everything underneath the sheer white lace negligee. It’s unabashedly revealing, and I know I should cover up. I should close my door and shut him out, lock up my thoughts and throw away the key, but I take a step forward, and it seems this tether that’s always between us, an invisible cord pulled taut enough to snap, dissolves into nothing.
I don’t know who moves first, him or me. I don’t suppose it really matters because his hands grip my hair, and his mouth covers mine, hot and unrelenting. He turns us. The column is at my back, hard stone scratching my skin as August’s hands lift my body and push me up against the cool surface. I cry out, but it’s as much in ecstasy as it is in pain. His hands tear at the fabric between us, and it falls away in wisps, pooling at his feet along with the rain. His hard length pushes at my entrance, and he shoves inside. My jaw drops open, sharp pants tearing from my throat as he thrusts his hips and buries himself deeper inside me. I slide my hands through his shock of thick hair, dip my head, and kiss his neck, trailing my lips up his hot flesh to his mouth. He stares at me, and I glare back at him, and then his lips meet mine and I’m lost to the feel of him inside me, driving me closer to the brink.
“Fuck, princess, you feel so fucking good,” he groans against my neck, nipping at my flesh. I let my head fall back against the column, not caring that the rain is soaking us both, making our bodies as slick as the feel of him inside me.
“August,” I cry, panting as heat builds low in my belly. I dip my head and kiss his lips again, tasting him, wishing I could get closer, praying for him to release me and silently begging him to hold me tighter, to never let me go.
Our kisses are frenzied. We scratch and claw at one another, punishing, pushing, urging each other on with grunts and thrusts, a language it seems only we know. He roars his frustration, and I grab his face with my hands, smother his lips with my own, and silently scream back, giving over to him, and taking all that he offers, demanding it. I don’t care that he might hate me afterward. I don’t care that this kind of sex punishes us both—if it’s the only way I can have him, then I’ll take it.
He pulls away from my lips, panting just as heavily as I am. I rest a hand between us, against his chest, so I know I’m not alone in this. So I might feel his heart beating as loud and thunderous as mine. It practically pounds right through my flesh, and I smile, and then I’m lost to the demands he whispers in my ear, as my orgasm builds. “Come for me, Liv. I wanna feel your sweet pussy milking my cock. I want you to come for me, and forget any other man ever touched you.”
As if his words were feather-light caresses against my heated flesh, I come and he follows me over the edge, grunting as he grinds out the last of his orgasm and his semen spills inside me. Panting, I cling to him, afraid to let go. Afraid he’ll discard me as easily as he did the last time.
He pulls out. I gasp with the slide of our bodies, but he carefully sets me on my feet.
Regret washes over his features, and my heart sinks. It’s the scene in the kitchen all over again. He wants me, but he doesn’t want me enough. The weight of his rejection slams into me, and I hold too tightly to his neck as I beg, “Please don’t shut me out.”
He frowns and wipes the moisture from my cheeks. I don’t know if he knows they’re tears and not rainwater but he takes my hand, interlacing our fingers which are hot and slick with sweat and rain, just like the rest of our bodies. “I don’t think I can anymore.”
My hearts soars hearing those words from his lips, and when he takes a step back and tugs me along behind him down the length of the porch to his room, I follow, because what else can I do?
As much as I’m under his skin, he’s under mine, has been since the day I arrived, and I don’t think there’s anything either one of us can do about it now.