Chapter Twenty-Nine
Elizabeth
It feels poignantly sweet to have Dominic sit next to me. I know he considers me a snake, but right now I’m willing to take comfort where I can. He hands me another vodka, and I drink it.
I feel tension slowly leave as his body heat seeps into me, and I close my eyes for a moment and pretend the last ten years didn’t happen.
Maybe it’s the alcohol—no. It isn’t the alcohol. The Pryce metabolism ensures that it’s never the alcohol. But my shields are down for now, leaving me vulnerable.
Without thinking, I lean closer to him. Back then, I would have sought his protection, comfort and love. And he would have given it all to me freely, never holding back.
He’s going to push you away.
I know, but I can extract a fraction of a second more of make-believe happiness…can’t I? Surely he doesn’t hate me as much as he says he does. He isn’t probing, he isn’t raging…
He actually seems unhappy I’m a mess.
But then he was never cruel or mean. Even if he hates me now…even if he wants to eventually get his pound of flesh, he isn’t going to hurt and humiliate me any more than required to get satisfaction.
Maybe it’s his way of finding closure so he can move on from our young, foolish romance.
To be able to go back in time…
A sense of loss throbs like a bruise. I’d give everything I have if we could be two happy kids all over again. Then I wouldn’t be so exhausted from pretending I’m fine. Everyone says if you fake something long enough, it becomes your reality, but no matter how long and hard I feign being okay, I’m not. I feel worse each day.
“Don’t cry.” His thumb brushes away tears I didn’t realize I’d shed, and I look at him. My heart is breaking again. I miss this touch… The tenderness, the caring.
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by old grief and the need for any scrap of affection. Nobody knows me the way Dominic does. Nobody ever had my love like he did.
He used to be the center of my universe. The whole celestial vault—it was all him. I should’ve kidnapped him, just dragged him away by his hair, using whatever means necessary. Then I’d still have the sun, the moon and the stars.
Except I know it was the right thing for him to stay. Running away with me wouldn’t have given him what he needed to fulfill his dream, give him the life he imagined.
Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. My heart beats, the throb so hard and painful I can feel it all the way to my fingertips. My eyelids lower. That way I don’t have to see the hate and disgust in his eyes…but can still bask in the heat from his body, smell the malt, spices and soap on him.
Then I feel it—his lips on mine. My mind is so sluggish I don’t even know who started the kiss, but I don’t care.
The touch is tentative at first, more of a stolen breath…barely there. I hold myself as still as possible, afraid he’s going to pull away.
His lips continue to move over mine, feather soft and sweet—like he’s afraid to spook me. The heat from his mouth slowly warms my lips, and I tremble as the rest of my body starts to thaw, my senses spinning.
“Breathe, Elizabeth,” he whispers against a corner of my mouth, still using only his lips to tease me.
Only then do I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I inhale shakily, and he runs his tongue along my lower lip.
A tide of longing spreads through me. My fingers fist around his shirt, pulling him closer. I part my lips, stroke his tongue with mine. He boldly slides his tongue in, and a hot bolt of lust crackles through me, chasing away the chill and ugly memories. I suck on his tongue, desperately wanting to cling to the hot need and sense of safety.
This is probably just temporary, and might just be sex, but I want it. My starving body wants it.
Breathing roughening, he deepens the kiss, using his lips, tongue and teeth, putting a big hand on my back, pulling me closer. I’m crushed against him, my heart beating fast and hard. The old scar underneath my left breast twinges dully. I kiss him as though my very existence depends on it, as though sanity can only be found in the breath we share.
I press my hands on his chest, feel his heart hammering. I don’t care if he hates me. I don’t care that he’s Andy’s cousin. Tonight, he can be my anchor.
“Elizabeth—”
I put fingers over his lips. “No, Dominic. At least for tonight, the last ten years didn’t happen.” Hesitation still flickers in his dark blue gaze. “Please.”
If he turns away, I’m afraid I’m going to shatter. I wait, holding my breath, praying he can let go for just a few hours.
After what feels like an eternity, he releases a shuddering breath. Overwhelming relief flows through me when he picks me up and carries me to bed, his mouth on mine again. Without breaking the kiss, he undoes the knot holding my wrap dress together. My bikini top is the next to go. The air in the room feels chilly on my bare skin. My nipples bead. He runs his hand over one breast, shaping it, weighing it, then suddenly stops, his thumb over the scar on the underside.
I flinch, growing rigid under his probing hand.
“What happened here?” he murmurs, sounding almost casual.
“Nothing.”
“It wasn’t there before.”
“‘Before’? It’s five years old.”
A slight pause. “Does it still hurt?”
“Not really,” I lie.
He places a soft kiss over the jagged scar. His mouth feels so hot yet gentle, it brings tears to my eyes again. He kisses all around the underside of my breast, his hand kneading the other one. Then he licks all around and pulls the tip into his mouth, sucking it greedily, scraping the delicate skin with his teeth and soothing it with his tongue.
I arch my back, panting, my fingers digging into his silken hair. The pleasure rushing over me is so sweet, so intense, that I can barely drag air into my lungs. God, it’s been so long. I part my thighs, cradle his thick erection and vaguely hear him groan against me, the soft vibration traveling right down to my clit.
He lavishes the same tender care to my other breast, as though he wants to make all my hurt go away. A cold sliver of guilt pierces the haze of pleasure.
You don’t deserve this.
And I don’t. I don’t deserve to have him worship my body like he used to. I don’t deserve any of this comfort, this warmth, this tenderness. I’m being selfish, using him to salve my old wound.
His lips leave a hot trail, tickling my navel and kissing my belly. Slowly he pulls my bikini bottom down my legs…and off. I feel his heated breath over my inner thighs, his lips traveling from my knee to my slick core.
And I know what he’s about to do. He always loved to drive me crazy with his mouth between my legs. And suddenly, I don’t want that—I can’t have that.
“Make it hurt,” I say, my voice breaking.
He pauses, raising his head. “What?”
“Make me hurt. Please.”
His thumb brushing over the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, he looks into my eyes. His pupils are so dark and intense, I feel like I’m being stripped layer by layer, revealing how little I have now. Because I have nothing—no heart, no soul.
What I have is a mask that I’ve perfected over the years. I know I look like a woman with a big heart and gentle soul when I put it on, even though it doesn’t fool Dominic. He can see what’s underneath.
His eyebrows pinch together for a moment, and suddenly I’m afraid he’s going to pull away. Pain play has never been his thing, and I shouldn’t have imposed that on him, not like this.
He firms his lips, his eyes narrowing, and I shudder with relief over the realization he’s not going to stop. I hold my breath, waiting for the pain, praying it can lessen the horrible guilt eating at me.
But instead, Dominic swipes me slowly with his tongue, sending an electric shock of pleasure along my spine.
“Dominic.”
He traps my wrists beneath the small of my back. “You don’t get to demand anything. You’ll take what I give you.” His voice is rough with lust and a hint of anger, but his mouth is patient and clever against my clit.
He swirls his tongue against me, licking, nipping, sucking. I cry out, white-hot bliss twisting inside me tighter and harder. He laps me up like he’s starving and I’m a feast just for him. When he pulls the sensitive nub inside his mouth, I come violently, my spine arching, my whole body convulsing, a scream caught in my throat.
Still, he doesn’t pull away. Instead he continues to apply pressure to prolong the climax. Then without giving me time to recover, he pushes his fingers inside, stretching me, filling me, soothing the aching emptiness. I’m so wet, so sensitive from the orgasm, every movement feels amplified and unbearably erotic. He curls his fingers, bumping into the sensitive spot inside me. And I come again, the orgasm exploding, leaving me shaking.
I sob out his name over and over again like I used to all those years ago.
He makes his way up my body, his mouth trailing hot kisses. He’s on me, above me, between my legs as he takes my mouth, tasting like himself and my slickness. “I can’t wait.”
“Don’t,” I whisper hoarsely and part my legs further. “Fuck me. Use me. Make yourself feel good.”
A low groan tears from him as he positions his cock at my entrance and then pushes inside, the motion slow, sure, breathtakingly sweet. I’m totally open to him, my ankles over his shoulders, knees bent, legs wide. He thrusts, the friction wet, slick and blissful. The tempo is slow at first, designed to make me feel every delicious inch of him as he surges inside. The pleasure builds again, and I pant and cling to him, yearning desperately to give him what he’s given me twice already. His eyes narrowed to brilliant blue slits, he changes the angle of our bodies, grinding into my clit with every stroke.
I sob, then scream as I climax again. His rhythm is harder now, faster, rougher. He pants over me, and I love the pleasure infusing his face. He’s so close.
I clench my muscles around him, holding him like a fist.
“Fuck.” He pulls out and spurts hotly all over my belly, a white stream shooting out in a silken arc.
His head lowers, his face buried in my neck, his breath hot and irregular. I caress his hair, running my fingers through it.
Not once during the entire frenetic time did he make it hurt. But the sense of heavy guilt is gone, along with unease and apprehension.
I finally understand that tenderness and pleasure, too, can be an effective weapon against old pain and regret.