Filthy English

There. Yes!

“More,” I begged, rotating my hips toward him, but he ignored me, using that torturous slow pace. He picked up the pearls, wrapped them around his hand, and tugged, forcing me to raise my chest to his so they didn’t break. He buried his face in my neck as my hands dug into his back.

“I want to be so deep inside you that nothing will ever tear us apart,” he said.

I grabbed his ass and pushed him further inside me.

“Remi, please, I’m going to break soon,” he called, his voice torn to pieces.

“Me too.”

A warm tongue ran up my neck as he pumped me hard and sure, yet with a carefulness I didn’t understand. He twisted his hips for a new position to go deeper, grinding, and I writhed underneath him, feeling the summit ahead.

I was close, so close.

His fingers strummed my nub, rubbing the wetness around. Teasing me. He wore me out, sweat dripping from his face to mine and he owned my body, making it do whatever he wanted. He was a drug; his body the antidote to all the sadness I’d suffered.

He stared down at me, his eyes dark as he opened his mouth to say something, but then didn’t.

Fire built once again, and I vibrated, grabbing the sheets and riding out the orgasm as my muscles spasmed around him. Yes!

He froze, watching me undulate around him. My throat clogged at the torment on his face. So much emotion—from both of us—yet I couldn’t say a damn word.

Then, as if he’d flipped a switch and was done being gentle, he bent my knees to my chest and pushed my legs together. My body tightened, ready for what came next. He wanted to put his stamp on me—own me. He slammed into me, pounding, sliding all the way out and then ramming home. We scooted to the headboard. The clock fell off the nightstand. The lamp teetered as he worked me to the corner, his body pushing me higher and higher.

I begged for more. Always more.

He delivered with one palm on the wall and one pressing on my legs. Arching his back, he crested, roaring his release into the room, his cock tightening and expanding.

Collapsing next to me, he kissed my cheek and pulled me up to the pillows. He settled me in front of him, my back to his chest. “Remi . . .” He stopped, his voice thick. Strained.

I just nodded, unable to look at him. I couldn’t. I wanted to cry.

What we’d just experienced had been too great. Too incredible.

It broke my heart.

He kissed my shoulders as fingers traced the lines of my back, drawing delicate swirls on my skin, a mere nuance of touch that held me in its thrall.

Was he writing my name? His?

He was incredibly sweet and gentle in the afterglow, just as I remembered.

I never wanted his hands to leave my body.

But they would.

He’d forget about me and trace lines on some other girl’s back. And then another. All the while, I’d have to pretend like my heart wasn’t forced to jump off a skyscraper, screaming the entire way down.

What did you expect, Remi? Flowers and a profession of love from him?

My belly grumbled and his hand stilled. In a hushed voice he said, “Hey. You must be hungry. Why don’t I run out and get us some coffee and breakfast?”

I nodded. Feeling awkward.

What should I say?

Thank you?

Oops?

Was this a one-time deal?

“Donuts?” I managed to say.

He nodded and slipped away from me gently, his hand trailing along my skin as he stood up from the bed. Abruptly, he leaned down and kissed my wrist where my bracelet used to lie, his eyes soft.

I watched as he dressed, slipping on his jeans. His gray t-shirt was next, sliding over his chest and abs as he slipped it over his neck. He raked a hand through his nearly dry hair and it fell in the usual perfectly tousled mess. He grinned at me, catching my gaze, and my breath hitched at how much I wanted him to stay in this room and never leave.

Something was off, a sixth sense as if this was the absolute last time I’d be with him.

I almost asked him to stay and we’d order room service and go for round two.

I should have, considering what would happen next—but I didn’t.

Instead, he tied his Converse, sent me a lingering look, and walked out the door.

Ten minutes later, I was drying off from a quick shower when I heard Dax knocking at the door. I should have given him a key. Wrapping a towel around my head turban-style and slipping on the fluffy white hotel robe, I plodded out of the steamy bathroom on wet feet and flung open the door.

This is it, Remi. Tell him how you feel . . .

I put a smile on my face to cover my nervousness. “Hey you. I hope you got chocolate—”

Warm hazel eyes with golden flecks met mine. Familiar sturdy shoulders leaned against the wall next to the door. He ran his gaze over me, a careful expression on his face. He exhaled and straightened. “Hello, Remington.”

DAZED, I COULDN’T have told you a damn thing leaving the hotel. Even worse, I wandered around for a good ten minutes like a lost puppy until I got some sense and checked my phone for local bakeries. Finding one a few blocks over, I headed that way, walking at a brisk pace. Once inside, I checked out the menu and ordered two large lattes and an assortment of pastries. My mouth opened and I talked, but I couldn’t tell you what I ordered.

I was numb, reeling from Remi, my brain as spent as my body.

I touched her name under my shirt. I didn’t regret it.

But something wasn’t right. I was left with a vast uneasiness, as if something had irrevocably changed and I’d never be the same.