She answers by pushing her arse back into my groin. This isn’t creative. This is a necessity. I reach for my cock and wrap a palm around the girth, drawing a few amazing strokes, every muscle buzzing with anticipation. It’s been weeks since I’ve been inside her. I need to maintain my control.
Guiding myself to her pussy, I take in air, preparing, then I slip in slowly, easily, gently. She sighs, subtly bowing. “Are you okay?” I ask, my vocal cords tight, holding still, waiting.
She hums in answer, her shoulder blades pulling in. I dip and kiss each before sinking my face between them, easing out little by little, the friction mind-bending. “Jesus, Beau,” I choke, biting down on my back teeth. “Okay?” I ask again, holding my body back, stopping it from doing what’s instinctive.
“I’m okay,” she grates, frustrated, her hand joining mine on the pillow and applying pressure, holding herself, and I know she’s trying to stem the pain. Stop the blood flow there to kill the nerves. “Move,” she orders.
“You’re hurting,” I mumble into her skin.
“Just move,” she snaps, impatient, grinding back. “This is the only thing making me feel normal.”
Her words trigger something in me. Duty. Love. I lick across her skin, finally allowing my hips to pump, steady and slow. Our collective moan is garbled and long. “Good?”
“It’ll do,” she whispers, and I smile.
It. Will. Do.
I maintain a consistent pace, my body moving slowly so she can move with me. The tighter her hand gets around mine, pushing into the pillow, the closer I know she’s getting. I need to ensure she doesn’t do herself any damage when she comes. Doesn’t lose control. Make any jerky, sudden movements. That’s not guaranteed. We all lose control in the throes of passion.
I gently lock down our arms over the pillow tighter, straining to keep the force, my muscles aching, as I split my attention between maintaining her pleasure and avoiding her pain.
“Shit,” she gasps.
“Okay?” I ask urgently, my hips not getting the memo, grinding on.
“Oh God,” she yells. “Oh God, oh God, oh God. I’m coming. I’m coming.”
Just the sounds. The words. My eyes cross, my dick loads, and I hold on to her for dear life, my body in spasm, pouring into her, feeling the walls of her greedy pussy grab on and constrict.
“Fuck,” I yell, jerking. “Shit.”
“I’m okay,” she cries, rolling her arse into me, her head thrashing on the pillow. I bite her back, fighting my way through my release. “I’m okay,” she repeats, this time calmly. “I’m okay.” She settles, breathing deeply, and I release her flesh and kiss it, moving my mouth across her back slowly. That was so good. Calm. Slow. But, as ever, immense.
She hums, her back tensing and relaxing under the attention of my mouth. “Have you spoken to Lawrence?” she asks, killing the moment. No, I haven’t, but I’ve spoken to Otto every day to get an update on all things, Lawrence being one of those things. He still hasn’t left his room at Danny Black’s mansion in Miami. I’ve sent the doctors in. Depression was mentioned. Depression because of grief. Beau’s uncle knows he’s lost his husband. That was a given after Dexter took Beau hostage and put a bullet in her. Whether it was intentional or not, I couldn’t give a fuck. But what Beau and Lawrence don’t know is that Dexter is dead. And they can never know. That was a decision I was forced to make when Beau agreed to marry me and slapped down a condition: I must let her uncle’s husband, the man who betrayed Beau, live. I agreed, but it was too late. I’d already killed him, and I can’t say with any guarantee that things would have been different had he been alive at the time Beau stipulated her condition. He was dead the moment I found out it was him on the inside, feeding The Bear information that not only got Beau’s mother killed, but also our baby. He very nearly took Beau from me too. So, yeah. That’s a secret I’ll take to the grave. As far as Beau and her uncle are concerned, Dexter has gone into hiding, and that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation given he’s got a pissed-off assassin hunting him. “He’s okay,” I say for the sake of it. Beau knows Lawrence is far from okay. “Why don’t you try calling him before we go out for dinner?”
She’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “The Enigma and The Brit walk into a bar,” she murmurs, looking back at me, an ironic smile on her face.
I kiss her gently. “Very funny.”
“It’s not a joke, though, is it? You and Danny Black joining forces.”
No, it’s no joke. It’s actually terrifying for all those involved, and even more terrifying for all those not. “It’s a means to an end,” I say, easing out of her carefully. “I’ll turn on the shower.” I climb off the bed and enter the bathroom, where white-washed driftwood dominates every inch. The vanity, the open shower, the walls. It’s cloudy but crisp. Rustic but clean. No glass. The oversized shower head suspends from the ceiling, and I turn the knob, making it rain.
“Will it be busy?”
I turn and find Beau in the doorway, naked except for the dressing on her stomach and the cast on her arm. I look away from her quickly, the constant mars on her beautiful body taking my mind to dangerous places. “No,” I answer, reassuring her. I made sure Black knew a quiet establishment was compulsory. Beau was doing so well in conquering her fear of chaos. Of crowds. The opera. The supermarket. But I’m well aware she only survived them because I was by her side. Calming her. Protecting her from what terrifies her. I feel like we’ve gone back twenty paces in that element of her life. I want her to relax. Leave no room for anxiety to move in.
So you’re taking her to dinner with The Brit?
“What will I wear?” She lifts her scarred arm, and her throat rolls from her swallow. “No one wants to look at this when they’re eating.” I notice the cast on her other arm isn’t an issue. Just the scars.
“Stop it.” I go to her, taking her wrist and lifting it to my mouth, kissing it. I don’t even see her deformity anymore. I hope she doesn’t see mine, either. I turn away from her, giving her my naked, damaged back, reminding her that we’re both imperfect.
“Are you going to dinner without a shirt?” she asks, reaching forward and stroking over the smooth but bumpy flesh. I glance over my shoulder, giving her a tired look. “Then your point is moot,” she says, lifting her arm again. “I’ve nothing with long sleeves.” She frowns. “And it’s still really, really warm.”
Claiming her shoulders, I lead her to the vanity unit and pick up the roll of cling film. “I don’t want you to hide it,” I tell her, starting to wrap her stomach to protect it from the water. “It’s a part of who you are.” I lean in and kiss her forehead before helping her into the waterproof arm protector. “A part of who we are.” And while we’re imperfect, we’re also really fucking perfect together.
“That’s sweet.” She pushes into my lips. “My assassin boyfriend has a romantic streak.”
I scowl and pull away. “Fiancé,” I correct her. “I’m your fiancé.” Why do I have to keep reminding her of this? “Because you agreed to marry this assassin, remember?” I won’t raise her condition. I hope we never have to speak of that again. She rejected me once. Not again.