Brutal Game (10 page)

“Just tell me what you’re feeling. Tell me why you pushed me away, when I tried to start something.”

“Like I said, I’m not ready.”

“Not ready because…?”

“Because…fuck. Because I’m still fuckin’ sad, okay?”

“About the miscarriage?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” She’d had no clue, in fact. He’d so thoroughly put her feelings first these past couple weeks, she’d come to assume he was doing fine with it all. “I wish I’d known.”

“Why? So you could feel even shittier than you already were?” The exhaustion in his voice left the sarcasm toothless.

“Ever since I found out I was pregnant, it’s felt like… Like you don’t think you get to have any opinions about any of it. Which I
never
agreed with.”

He took a deep breath, attention on the hands flexing restlessly between his knees. “I know.”

“But you clearly
do
have opinions, and you obviously need to vent them. So tell me about them. You feel sad about the miscarriage. How come?”

He finally met her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”

She supposed that, yes, it was. “You were hoping I’d keep it?”

He didn’t reply immediately, looking hesitant, lost. “Maybe. Maybe I was.”

Laurel moved, settling at his side with her glass. Sometimes it was easier to talk about heavy things when eye contact was off the table.

She told the far wall, “You were always allowed to want that.” A fresh chill settled over her, nothing to do with the cold floor beneath her butt.
If I’d decided to end it, would you have resented me? Left me over it, in time?
“I wish you’d told me. But I know why you didn’t.”

“Thing is, nothin’ about having a kid right now made any sense. It didn’t make sense for you, job-wise. It didn’t make sense for us, together, not this soon.”

“No.”

“It didn’t even make sense for me,” he said. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve been sittin’ around twiddlin’ my thumbs, wishin’ I was a father. Not at all. I see people around town with strollers lookin’ like they haven’t slept in a year and I think, ‘Thank fuck that’s not me, yet.’ And now that it’s gone, it’s not like I want us to try and get you pregnant all over again.”

“But…?”

He shrugged, the black of his sweater rising and slumping in her periphery. “My head was with you, with whatever you decided. But some other part of me…I dunno. It charged me up, imagining it. Or just knowin’ about it, knowin’ that was going on inside your body. I won’t lie, it felt really fucking profound.”

“I wish I’d known.”

“It might’ve changed what you decided. And I didn’t want that, not when it was just some feeling.”

“Feelings are important. More important than logic, sometimes. And it kind of scares me that I didn’t know how you felt. Like, if I’d decided to end it, what would you have thought of me? It’s my body but it’s your life as much as mine that would’ve been turned upside-down.”

“It was always your decision. The stakes were ten times higher for you.”

At a loss, she took a sip of wine and Flynn did the same.

“You know what I think bothers me the most?” he asked at length, setting his glass between his feet.

“What?”

“It’s how mismatched this feels. Like, how can I be so sure about us—ready to marry you, ready to raise a kid, with or without you—and you have no fucking idea what you want?”

She thought about that long and hard, emotions bubbling up to leave her face hot and no doubt red. “Because one of us knows themselves, and the other’s a
fucking
mess.” Her voice broke on the swear, and in a blink tears were stinging. She willed them away, not wanting to cry. Not wanting to seem weak, to give this man any reason to pull his punches when it had taken so much pushing to get him to be honest in the first place. Still, fear was rising inside her, gathering dark and dense as a storm cloud.
Where’s this going?

He didn’t reply right away.

She’d never felt this cut off from him before, and it couldn’t be a coincidence that they hadn’t had sex in two weeks. Was that how it worked? Take the fucking away and they just fell to pieces? Was sex that powerful, or was what connected them simply that tenuous, when you got right down to it?

“Look at us,” he said quietly. “You’re ready to move on, and good for you. But me, I’m stuck feeling all this grief and shit, like the miscarriage started this morning. How can we be so fucking far apart?”

How indeed, when he was close enough for her to feel the heat coming off his body?

“I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve had the luxury of focusing on how I feel this entire time, and you’re only now just letting yourself think about it. Or because part of me was relieved by what happened, and you clearly weren’t.”

“Maybe.”

“I hope you know how much I appreciate you being there for me, through all this.”

“You told me every single day.”

“Good. It’s meant a lot. I don’t know how I would’ve survived it all, without you.” A couple days into the ordeal she’d told Anne what she was going through, and her friend had been great—eager to console and distract—but it had been Flynn’s strong and steady presence that had seen her to the light at the far end of the tunnel. “I only wish I’d known you were hurting this much, so I could’ve been there for you. We could’ve hurt together.”

“Maybe,” he said again.

“Maybe we’re not so far apart, after all.” She sought his gaze, nervous, desperate for some taste of connection, for proof their bond was still intact. “I feel like I let you down.”

He looked to the glass resting between his ankles, shook his head. “You didn’t know. I didn’t want you to.”

“Well, tell me what you need now.”

He raised his chin, attention somewhere in the middle distance. “Fuck if I know.”

“Time, probably. But anything else you think of, tell me.” If only his needs were as obvious as back rubs and ibuprofen.

“Do you want me to go?” she asked.

His lips twitched.

“It’s okay if you do. If you’re grieving, sometimes that’s easiest to do alone.”

He picked up his glass from between his feet, draining it then setting it on the table. He turned to face her and she did the same, surprised but relieved when he reached out to cup her neck. He urged her close and kissed her deeply, tasting as he never had in all the time she’d known him. Feeling as he never had either, his lust—if it could be called lust—tinged with something brittle and needy.

She couldn’t guess where he wanted this to end up, but she was prepared to find out, to go with him wherever he needed to be.

He grabbed at her hips and she took the cue, straddling his lap. Her skirt rode up, bare legs hugging his clothed ones. Hungry, coarse hands rubbed her thighs, thumbs tracing the hems of her panties at her hips then slipping beneath them.

His kiss matched the touch, feeling more like the Flynn she knew—masterful, if not entirely present. He tugged her close, her soft sex pressing along the seam of his fly and the hard flesh it hid. She nearly asked if he was ready, then caught herself. The time for assurances had passed. Perhaps action was best. Perhaps getting lost in the physical could help them find their way back to each other.

“You feel good,” she whispered against his lips. And he did. Rough and eager, and above all, controlled. The hands guiding her hips felt strong, showing her what he wanted. She gave it, rubbing their bodies together, her breasts brushing his chest, mouths losing grace until they broke apart completely. She pressed her lips to the spot where his jaw met his ear, let him hear how ragged her exhalations had grown.

“You want me?” he demanded, voice rumbling through both of their bodies and lighting her on fire.

“So bad.”

“What’ve you missed most?” His tone was a touch cold, a touch callous, but she welcomed it all the same.

“You, being bossy.”

He ground her hard against him. “What else?”

“Your cock.”

He didn’t reply except to suck a long, guttural breath and bury his face against her throat.

Come back to me.
She wanted all of him, but she’d take his sexual side only, if that was what was on offer. She’d take whatever iteration of her lover this was, let this sex be his solace or distraction, or her punishment.

Whatever he needed. Whoever he needed to be.

“
W
hat were you after
, before?” Flynn asked, hands still guiding her hips, mouth at her throat. “Before I stopped you.”

“Everything.”

“What were you gonna do, once you got me out?”

Laurel swallowed. “Suck your cock.”

A curt moan answered her and his hands gripped tighter, nearly too much. A breath before she could ask him to be gentler, he let her go. “On your knees.”

I know that voice.
She made her way to the cold floor once more. That voice belonged to a man she’d met last summer, a stranger named Flynn who’d invited her to this very apartment and showed her all the frightening things he liked in bed. A man who’d professed not to spoon and not to call women after he’d messed around with them. In time he’d proven himself a liar on both counts, but the man with her tonight… This could’ve been their first time together, for how familiar he felt just now.

He sat on the couch. Laurel knew better than to stroke his thighs or go for his fly as she had earlier—not without say-so. This Flynn was in charge, and she’d do only what he asked. What he commanded.

“Show me what you were gonna do, girl.”

She dipped her chin in a tiny nod. She reached for his belt, unthreading it slowly, her body buzzing, hands nearly shaking. She felt as nervous as she had their first night alone together, but just as excited. Wet, too. Ready for whatever he demanded of her.

She spread the thick leather of his belt and opened the button of his fly, then the zipper. Merino wool teased her knuckles, the sweater she’d chosen for a man she’d known so well, worn now by this thrilling and unnerving stranger. It was so soft, the body beneath it merciless and hard. She let the feelings move through her like a song hummed out of tune. Any fear she felt was welcome, a dark new shadow in a forest she tread in fearlessly.

“Take me out. Get me hard.”

She knew those words as a penitent woman might know a Bible verse. She tugged his jeans low and he shifted, pushing them to his hips. The second half of his order proved moot; his erection looked obscene even through black cotton, and again Laurel felt that prickle in her mouth, thirst spiking. She stroked him with the heel of her hand, but he wanted more. He pushed his waistband down, exposing every ready inch. The breath left her in a huff.

“That what you wanted to see?”

She nodded, meeting his eyes. “Yes.”

“Stroke it.”

She wrapped her hand around that fevered flesh. His pulse throbbed in her grip, impatient. Insistent. She kept it slow, kept it tight, measuring him with her fist. His scent was so strong now. She’d find his excitement gleaming at his slit before long, evidence of his need so like the wetness already slicking her lips.

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I love your cock.”
I love you, exactly like this.
It was like loving a stranger—impulsive and thrilling.

“Show me how much you love it.”

She gripped his root and lowered her mouth. He tasted as he smelled, potent and personal. She swallowed him halfway—as much as she could without gagging. Then again, again, stroking the underside with her tongue, letting his head nearly slip from her lips only to claim him again, a little deeper, a little deeper still.

“More.”

I know what you want.
What every man wanted, it often felt, but only this one had ever managed to make sexy, as far as Laurel was concerned. Words from three seasons back echoed in her ears—spoken to another woman but meant for her. Of that she had no doubt.

Good girl. I wanna see you choke on that cock.

She gave what he asked. Slid her lips past the point of comfort and his crown bumped her palate, triggering that first reflexive gag. She felt the spasm but not the sting in her sinuses, not the roiling in her stomach. She knew this act too well.

A cool, heavy hand came to rest on the nape of her neck, sending a shiver trickling down her back. She took him deep again, reveling in the way her muscles clenched, unafraid. While the sensation wasn’t strictly pleasant, the result was reward enough to go there, tenfold. She might tense with every fresh violation, but it was nothing compared to how her reaction affected him.

Like an electrical pulse, his entire body jerked each time she gagged. Sometimes a “yeah” or a “fuck” rewarded her, sometimes a half-swallowed moan. Her mouth was awash with spit, a reflex she’d once found embarrassing, but now welcomed part and parcel with the rest of this act. It bathed his flesh and eased the motions, slipped from her lips in warm ribbons. It made her feel sloppy but that only sharpened the taboo. The biology of his desire was ugly, and these were the things that turned him on like nothing else. She welcomed the wet heat as it slid along her jugular, welcomed his deepening moans as his hips began to work.

The hand on her neck moved to her hair, fisting her ponytail. “Take that cock. Nice and deep. Show me how bad you fucking want it.”

Held this way, her chance to own some part of this act was gone. Her only options now were to submit or to flee, and that choice needed no deliberation.

In time she felt her face flushing, her nose growing runny. Just as she was beginning to hope he’d finish soon, he eased her off him by her hair. She sat back on her knees, resisting an urge to sniff, or to flex her aching jaw. She kept her eyes on his chest, watching its quick rise and fall and awaiting whatever came next.

“On my bed,” he ordered, face and voice both cold as January.

She got to her feet, legs tingly. She could feel his eyes on her every step of the way, found them studying her hips or thighs when she turned and sat. His cock was hidden by his shorts once more. He fisted his jeans and belt and approached, stopping before her, seeming mountainous. He peeled away his sweater and undershirt in one pull, then slid his belt free with a slow, smooth motion. It looked like a bullwhip in his fist. He tossed it behind her on the bed. She’d expected him to keep his jeans on, but he pushed them down along with his shorts, stepping free of the pile and stripping his socks. Usually when he was playing the cold and controlling stranger, he kept his pants on. It seemed that power play wasn’t needed tonight, and it made her wonder exactly who this was.

Whoever he might be, he looked powerful and impenetrable even without of stitch of clothing hiding that pale skin. Whatever he might want, it was as dark as his shaded eyes or the hair framing his ready cock, or the stitches marring his brow.

“Take your top off.”

She undid each button on her blouse, revealing a plum-colored bra patterned in white vines. Her panties matched. She’d dressed as she’d felt only hours ago—womanly, sexy, confident. She couldn’t say what she felt now or what underwear would best embody it, only that this wasn’t quite right.

“Your bra,” he said.

Reaching back, she freed the hooks. She let the straps fall from her arms just as he reached down to grab one of her legs. He lifted it, unzipping her boot, sliding it off. It hit the floor with a thump, a little jangle of its decorative buckle. Next came her sock. Again, on the other side. If it excited him, that face didn’t give away a thing.

She expected her skirt to come next, but he said, “Hands and knees.”

She obeyed, moving to the middle of the mattress on all fours. The belt was there, close enough to touch if she splayed her fingers, and she doubted its presence was accidental.

His weight shifted the mattress beneath her, an ages-old trigger that had anticipation winding tight inside her. Heavy hands sought her thighs then rose, pushing her skirt up, kneading her ass, her hips, roaming along her sides and ribs and finally cupping her breasts. He taunted with grazing caresses of his calloused, workingman’s palms, then mean tweaks of her nipples. She gasped from the pleasure and pain equally, that balance he could navigate like a tightrope walker.

Her skirt had fallen back into place and he shoved it roughly up to her waist. His thumbs slid under the hems of her underwear, bunching the fabric into a strip between her cheeks. She waited for it—the first spank. Instead she got his short nails dragging over her skin, then the teasing, pleasurably demeaning sensation of her panties being pushed up farther, wedged tight in her cleft, damp cotton cleaving her labia.

“You look good, girl.”

She swallowed.

“You wet for me?”

“Yes.”

“Gimme the belt.”

She passed it back, nerves flashing cold, then hot.

“All the way down.”

A familiar order. She lowered, laying her shoulders and one side of her face on the sheet. The rumpled cotton smelled of Flynn, of both of them, and she extended her arms back along her sides. A muscle in her neck whined as he brought her wrists together at the small of her back and wrapped them in the leather. It had always been an awkward position for her, but she settled into the discomfort as she’d learned to. There was a tug as he secured the buckle, then he let her hands go.

He pulled her underwear down some but didn’t take them off. Instead he yanked the crotch to one side, and there it was—the smooth, blunt head of his cock, seeking entrance. She was mindful to take a deep breath and release it slowly, to will her body to relax. She’d been crampy on and off since she’d had the IUD put in, and she didn’t relish that pain on top of the contortion.

“Yeah,” he muttered, pushing inside. “So fucking wet.” He wasn’t patient, but as he sank in fully on the third thrust, her body settled without a twinge. He felt obscene, the thick intrusion of his cock underscoring the scent of the sheets, the sounds of his deepening grunts, the true bondage of her wrists and the added constriction of her twisted panties.

Laurel had a private name for this sensation—
trussed.
It unleashed a flurry of emotions when they took things here, the experience at once humiliating and exhilarating. The sort of thing she might glimpse in pornography and find both demeaning and titillating, but on balance feel too squicked by to keep watching. The sort of thing she’d always held against a lover, should she discover it was his taste. Until Flynn.

He was so up front, so guileless, his desires didn’t threaten her. She followed him places she never would have imagined she might, never bumping up against a kink that didn’t repay her discomfort at least twofold in pleasure or gratification.

At least not until tonight. As the thrill of the initial penetration faded, her excitement ebbed, outshone by a growing strain in her shoulder, a nagging itch where the wool of her skirt’s waist rubbed her skin. A nagging
worry
in her head, one she’d never encountered in this bed before.

Even deep inside her body, he felt so far away. It made her ache to free her wrists and turn over, to wrap her arms around him, hold him tight. But that was merely what
she
wanted. What he needed tonight looked far different, but she’d give him that all the same. She’d endure it, and come out sore and probably uncertain, but not hurt. Not where it counted. Under all the worry, she felt strong. Strong enough to be whatever release he needed. Strong enough to trust this was still the same man she loved, even as he felt undeniably like a stranger.

She was sweating now, the wool chafing, the elastic of her panties pulled taut against the seam of one thigh and promising a mark. She shoved those details aside and instead pictured his face, cheeks stained dark with effort, eyes at once wild and stony, lips parted and flushed. The image struck that flint deep inside her belly, the first spark that told her an orgasm was possible. It’d take more though, and it felt foolish to hope that her pleasure was on his mind, tonight.

“You feel good,” he told her again, his voice like water to a woman lost in a desert. She drank the words down, dying for more.

“I want to plea—ease you,” she said, jolted by his hammering hips.

“You do nothing tonight but get fucked.” His reply was coarse but quenching all the same.

“Yes, Sir.” She hadn’t called him that in ages. The formality of it had always seemed corny to Laurel, but it felt right tonight, somehow. She’d read a book about D/s sex after they’d become a couple. Was this subspace? Wait, no—she was thinking far too much for that. She was thinking far too much, period. She needed more. She needed pleasure to let her endure the discomfort. And there was no choice but to spell it out for him.

“I want to come for you.”

His hips kept pumping but his sounds changed, grunts muted to huffs of air. “That so?”

“Yes, please. On your cock, just like this.”

“Beg me again. Beg me again, and maybe I’ll give you exactly what you need.”

“Please, Sir. Touch me, please. I want it so bad it hurts.” She wanted it so badly, just to balance out the hurt.

“You want my touch,” he echoed, his tone maybe mocking, maybe just cocky. One hand moved from her hip to her crack, thumb drawing a shocking line down and over her hole.

Her breath was gone, body tossed between misgiving and excitement, as it always was when he took liberties back there. He reached around to wet his thumb where his driving cock met her slick lips. He swept his fingertips over her clit for a single second’s torturous tease before returning to her ass.

She gave herself over to this moment, still intimidating after all this time with Flynn, but familiar. The faint sting of the intrusion, the warped pleasure of the transgression. It wasn’t the touch she craved, but there was no denying it solidified the need pulsing in her belly.

“That what you wanted?” he demanded.

“I’ll take whatever you give me.”

His thumb twisted, retreated, delved deep again, feeling better by the second. “Good answer. But don’t lie to me, sweetheart.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Tell me what you want.” Such words could have felt reassuring, except he sounded cold, so cold.

“My clit,” she mumbled.

“Tell me.”

“My clit. Please. Please.”

He shifted, knocking her knees wider with his own for balance, then inching the hand still holding her hip forward, seeking her cunt.

She cried out the moment he glanced that blazing, aching spot. There was a spit-damp patch of sheet spreading under her cheek. Her neck was wrenched and her hands were numb, screaming for blood, but all at once she felt none of it. The universe shrank to the point where his fingertips met her clit, blinding bright, nearly too much to bear.