It took a while.

It didn't have to, but he drew it out.

He got me back. Oh Jesus, did he get me back.

His tongue circled my c.l.i.t until I was gasping for breath and gyrating against his face, and then he'd stop and slide fingers inside me and f.u.c.k me with his fingers, reach in, curl his fingers and find that spot high inside and rub it, and his tongue would slide slowly against my c.l.i.t until I was grinding against his face again, and then he'd stop and just flick tiny quick little bursts of his tongue tip against my c.l.i.t, teasing, teasing.

I held onto the wall, pressing my palm flat against the wet subway tile for balance, standing on one foot, my back against the wall, the shower streaming down against my neck and over my b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

He drew it out over and over, getting me to the edge again and again, then pulling me back only to drive me there once more.

When I was frantic and desperate, riding the edge but unable to fall over because he just wouldn't give it to me, wouldn't give me the rhythm or consistency I needed, I started to growl, grabbing his head with both hands and grinding against his mouth, pushing against him.

And then...he pulled away.

"What the f.u.c.k, Harris?" I growled. "I was-I'm right there."

He shut off the water, then stepped out of the tub, shoved the curtain aside, and reached in. Lifted me as effortlessly as picking up a suitcase. Carried me dripping wet out of the bathroom and set me on the bed.

"Nick, I'm soaking wet-"

"Don't care."

"Are there new sheets?"

He leaned over me, eyes intense. "Nope. But again, don't care. We're leaving soon, anyway."

"For Rio?"

"Eventually."

"What-what-why did you stop?"

He was levered over me, face inches from mine, and I realized he was hard again, ready again. "Because I know what you're doing."

"What am I doing?"

"You can't get away from this, Layla."

"Away from what?"

He pushed into me, entering me slowly, his eyes on mine, thrusting in to the hilt. "Don't play coy with me, Layla Campari. I know you. And I know you're f.u.c.king terrified."

"I am not." This was breathy, because I totally was terrified, and I hated it, and also because he felt so G.o.dd.a.m.ned perfect inside me, felt so G.o.dd.a.m.ned perfect above me.

"It's okay to be scared," he said, and moved slowly, gliding in a smooth rhythm. "I won't hurt you. I won't disappear. I won't let you down."

"f.u.c.k." My throat was hot, tight. "G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Nick."

"You are the only person who has ever called me that, you know." He bent to capture my nipple in his mouth, and then my lips. "You can't escape it. You can't stop it. And deep down, you don't want to."

"Shut up and f.u.c.k me, Harris." I bucked against him, angry now.

He just laughed and kept moving slowly, gently. He pressed down on me with his weight, pinning me, and caressed my face in that way he had, thumb grazing my lips. "Oh, I will. I'll f.u.c.k you every way there is, twice. I'll f.u.c.k you until you can't see straight. I'll f.u.c.k you sideways, upside down, in your a.s.s, I'll f.u.c.k your mouth and I'll f.u.c.k your t.i.ts, and I'll f.u.c.k your sweet p.u.s.s.y until it's raw."

I gasped, blinking, as he pushed deeper, lifting my legs onto his shoulders and driving deeper yet. "Oh-oh-holy f.u.c.king s.h.i.t. Nick...Jesus." He was so deep now it hurt perfectly, so deep, filling me completely, stretching me and opening me.

"But you know what else, Layla?"

I took the bait. I had no choice. "What, Nick?"

"I won't just f.u.c.k you."

"No?"

"Oh no. I'm going to show you what it means to be possessed by me. To be treasured. To be the object of devotion, and pa.s.sion." He moved, slowly, deeply, rhythmically. Gently. Tenderly. "I'm going to show what it means to be mine. And you'll never want anything else again."

Little did he know, I already didn't want anything else. So ruined. I was so ruined.

Then the b.a.s.t.a.r.d messed me up even more. Right when I knew he was on the edge, and I was there too, he pulled out.

"I'm going to kill you," I snapped.

He didn't answer. He rolled us so I was on top, let me find my balance, and then slid his body down until his face was underneath me. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth-whatever the f.u.c.k that bulls.h.i.t phrase even means-I sat on his face. His tongue speared into me, and I gasped. Then his tongue flicked my c.l.i.t, and I moaned. And then he sucked my c.l.i.t into his mouth, shoved three fingers into my slit, reached up and twisted my nipple...and I screamed.

I rode his face like he was a G.o.dd.a.m.ned penny pony at the grocery store, and he took it and ate me out until I was screaming nonstop and frantic and grinding my c.l.i.t on his mouth like I'd die if he stopped. I just might have, you never know.

But the b.a.s.t.a.r.d wasn't done. He just had to up the ante, because he was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. The best kind of b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but still a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

What did he do, you ask?

He put one in the stink. Not the pinky of the left hand he was three-fingers deep inside my p.u.s.s.y with, either. No, he reached around my hip with his right hand and pressed his middle finger against my a.s.shole. Already cresting the edge of o.r.g.a.s.m, this was nearly too much. But just because I'm a glutton for punishment, I held myself back. I wanted that finger in me, first. I forced myself to relax and open for him as he ma.s.saged the rosebud of muscle.

I grabbed his hand, pulled it up to my face, and spat on his fingers.

No shame in my game, b.i.t.c.hes.

I heard as well as felt the ba.s.s rumble of his laughter.

He smeared my saliva against my rear entrance until I was nice and coated, and then pressed his finger in, gently, slowly, carefully. One knuckle, pulsing rhythmically in and out, tongue slowly working my c.l.i.t, keeping me at the edge but not pushing me over. I rocked my hips, and got another knuckle's worth for my effort. I couldn't stop the moans from escaping then, and didn't try. He increased the pace of his mouth over my core, tongue flicking in quickening circles, fingers sliding in and out of my hot, wet slit, long thick middle finger now fully inserted, his palm flat against my flesh. Couldn't be a comfortable position, his wrist curled around like that. I let myself go, then.

I felt it start in my belly and in my chest, my muscles tightening, my heartbeat going wild, my thighs trembling from the effort of holding myself aloft over him. I cursed and started convulsing, grinding on his face arrhythmically, wildly, rocking against his fingers, the one and the three, which he used to great effect, thrusting them in and out of me in a steady rhythm.

The scream when I came probably woke up people in China.

He still wasn't done with me.

Still coming, I had no choice but to grab onto his shoulder for balance as he slid out from beneath me, rose to sit on his shins, and lifted me up. My thighs were done, toast, jelly; I had to cling to his neck, shaking all over, quaking with tremors of the o.r.g.a.s.m that still had me in its grip.

Harris wasted no time, no motion or energy. He palmed my a.s.s cheeks and lifted me up, and I, savvy to his intentions, reached between us and guided him home.

f.u.c.k. Did I really just think that? Home? There was no home. I had no home.

But this felt like it. Holding onto Harris's strong neck and broad shoulders, wrapping my legs around his waist and letting myself sink down around him to sit on his thighs...that felt like home.

Clutching Harris for all I was worth, still ripped by waves of climax, feeling him deep inside me, one of his corded forearms beneath my b.u.t.tocks, the other gathering my hair into a ponytail and gripping it at the base of my skull and roughly jerking my head back so I had to look at him...

I was HOME.

G.o.dd.a.m.n it.

He just held me like that. Seated on him, my head tilted back so I was staring down at him past my nose, my hands clawed into talons gripping his shoulders. So deep. So thick inside me. Throbbing, hot. My c.u.n.t pulsed around him, oozed essence. He didn't move, just stared at me.

"You feel us?" He thrust once, hard.

"Yes," I breathed, and tried to close my eyes.

"f.u.c.king look at me, Layla." He gave my hair a jerk. "Tell me what you feel. Out loud, right now." Another thrust, this one slow but forceful, lifting me up with the power of his thighs.

"I feel us. I feel you." I ground my hips on him, needing more, even though he couldn't go deeper and I'd already come so hard I was still out of breath, but there were the facts: I needed more, and I hated myself for it. Hated my weakness for the drug that was Nick.

"Copout."

"It's not a copout, that's what I feel."

He pulled on my hair until I bent backward, so my t.i.ts thrust into his face. He latched onto my breast, licking first the wide dark brown circle of my areola and then flicking his tongue over my nipple. A thrust, once again hard and slow, lifting me up. He was doling out the thrusts like they were in short supply, and it was working, making me want them all the more for how few I was getting.

"No s.h.i.t you feel us, Layla. I'm inside you. I can't go any deeper." He bit my neck, my throat, kissed my chin, keeping a firm grip on my hair so I couldn't move to even kiss him back. "I know you feel us. Tell me what's inside you."

"You are."

He laughed. "True. But you know what I mean. Don't be a p.u.s.s.y, Layla."

"Tell me what you feel, then, Mr. I'm In Touch With My Feelings." He may not have heard the capital letters on that, but they were there.

"I've f.u.c.ked a lot of women in my life-"

"Wow. Great to know while you're inside me," I snapped.

He continued as if I hadn't spoken. "None of them have ever made me feel even a fraction of what you do, Layla. You've ruined me for other women. You've ruined me for s.e.x with anyone else, ever again. And you know how we talked about being scared every time I went into combat? Well, I'm not ashamed to admit the way you're making me feel emotionally has me all kinds of f.u.c.ked up in the head. I'm scared of you. You scare the s.h.i.t out of me."

"How many women have you f.u.c.ked, Harris?"

"You're jealous?"

"No. G.o.d, no." I totally was. I didn't want to be, but the theme of this whole mess with Harris was me at war with myself.

"You are."

"No, I'm not. It's just a d.i.c.k move to brag about how many women you've f.u.c.ked while you're in the middle of f.u.c.king a woman."

"I wasn't bragging. Just stating a fact."

"Why are we having this conversation?" I asked. "Why now?"

"Because you're trying to avoid me. You thought you could avoid me by going down on me." Just to make sure things stayed...relevant, he pushed up into me, pulling a gasp from me. "You can't avoid this. It's real. It's happening. It's been happening."

"I'm not avoiding anything."

"You're a s.h.i.tty liar, Layla."

I was, though. The man knew me. I was a bad liar, and I was lying.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Nick. What the h.e.l.l do you want from me?"

"I want you to admit this is more than just outrageously incredible s.e.x. It's more than just a good hard f.u.c.king." He pulled my hair again so I was leaning backward, spine arched, and he leaned backward as well, reaching between our bodies to caress my c.l.i.t. He f.u.c.ked me, then, moving hard and fast, pounding into me over and over, driving up with all of his considerable power so our bodies crashed together with a slapslapslapslap of flesh on flesh.

My t.i.ts bounced roughly on my chest, my a.s.s. .h.i.t his thighs and shook like gelatine.

G.o.d, I loved it.

"You like that, don't you, Layla?"

"f.u.c.k yes," I admitted, breathless.

"You like it when I f.u.c.k you so hard you can't see straight."

"Don't stop, Harris. Please, don't stop."

He stopped.

He let go of my hair and tipped me backward so I hit the mattress, and then he was over me, above me, still inside me, his hand on the back of my knee stretching my leg up toward my chest, splitting me open, pushing deeper and deeper. He pinned my knee in place with his arm, and his free hand brushed my hair out of my face.

And he moved, slowly, gently, with a rhythm so smooth there was no way for me to know where the thrust in stopped and the pull out began.

"How about this?" he asked. "Do you like this?"

I whimpered in answer. Lifted my hips to meet his. "Yes," was all I could say.

"Is this f.u.c.king?"

I shook my head. "No."

He let go of my leg, and I wrapped my heels around his back. He braced himself with his hands beside my face, and just moved, plain vanilla missionary. It had never felt so good.

Or so intimate.

"What about this?"