It’s so hard and thick that it hurts a little, but I welcome that burn, and I repeat it over and over again.
Once I find my rhythm, I release his chest and grip his thighs for balance. At first, Daniel watches me with that fire, with that lust, and want, that mirrors mine.
He rakes his eyes over my bouncing breasts, to my wild hair, and finally on where his body meets mine.
Then, he grabs my hips, his hooded eyes focused on mine, and thrusts in me from the bottom.
The rhythm is mad and the friction is so intense that I think I’ll black out from the promise of pleasure alone.
“You look like a fucking goddess, Peaches.”
I come then, my chest squeezing with all the words and touches and everything in between.
But it doesn’t end. Not when he keeps driving in me from below and playing with my nipples as he chases his own orgasm.
I bite my lower lip, watching his face contort as he releases deep inside me.
I can feel his cum pouring out of me and I release a sigh as I collapse on top of him, my head colliding with his thundering heartbeat.
As if it’s planning to leap out of his chest and slip into mine.
I love you, I want to say, but I can’t.
What if it ruins this moment? What if I lose him again?
If my feelings scare him, then there’s no need for them.
There’s no need for stupid emotions that only got me in trouble before. I’m fine with just this.
Or at least I try to think that I am.
Unrequited love hurts. No matter how much I try to hide it, it escapes to a deeper part of me and remains hauled in there, festering, turning to a bitter pill I swallow every morning.
Every day.
Every year.
I tried to cure myself of the Daniel disease. I truly did, and I thought I succeeded all those years I was busy raising Jay and surviving in a world that spat me out like chewed gum.
But seeing him again, being with him, reaching to a secret part of him is just too much.
I’m not strong enough to resist that.
To resist him.
“The art of pain is an abstract form of vengeance,” I read his tattoo in the silence of the room. “Who said that?”
“Me.”
“I didn’t know you were a philosopher.”
“I’m not. I dreamt about it.”
I prop my elbows on his chest to stare at him. “A dreamer, too. You keep surprising me, Dan.”
A grin paints his lips and that’s really not good for me because his dimples appear and they’re so mesmerizing and beautiful and dangerous for me. “Mission accomplished.”
“Do you still want revenge against me?”
“No. I don’t think I even wanted that in the first place, I just…channeled those negative thoughts into that specific jar.”
“Does that mean you’ll stop being mean?”
“Was I?”
“You were a dick.”
“Happy to see you have colorful language in your dictionary, Miss Prude.”
My fingers find the blood on his forehead and I try to wipe it away. “I curse internally sometimes. What I showed was never what I felt.”
He breathes heavily. “I’m starting to see that.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. I’m going to need some time to wrap my head around it all.”
“There was an exception.”
“An exception?”
“The day we had sex for the first time, I showed what I felt.”
A heated look covers his features and I think he’ll fuck me again, but he kisses me.
Sweet and tender, then raw and violent.
“Tell me you’re mine, Nicole,” he groans against my lips.
“I’m yours.” The words are the easiest I’ve ever said.
“Only mine?”
“Only yours.”
Probably since we were young.
But I don’t say that because apparently feelings are not Daniel’s forte.
Hell. He’s still wrapping his head around the past.
If I give him time, he’ll come back to me, right?
He’ll heal. I’ll heal and he’ll love me.
I shiver at that.
That’s the exact thought I had eleven years ago. That with time, he’ll come to me.
But it was never the case.
If anything, it ended with a tragedy.
I try not to think about that as I kiss him and sleep tucked in the curve of his body with his legs and arms swallowing me in a cocoon.
It’s like he can’t touch me enough, entwine his body with mine enough.
Be with me enough.
A small gasp startles me awake. At first, I’m disoriented by the morning light coming from the window.
I’m pretty sure the curtains were closed last night, and I don’t think the mansion’s staff would waltz into Daniel’s bedroom.
Oh, shit. Please don’t tell me Jay found his way here.
I jerk up to a sitting position, pulling the covers around my chest.
Fortunately, I don’t have to worry about traumatizing my little brother for life.
Unfortunately, I’m staring into the green eyes I wished to not see again for a lifetime.
My stepsister—ex-stepsister—glares at me with a hand on her hip. “What the hell is going on here?”
27
NICOLE
One of the few things Papa taught me is that water and oil never mix.
You can jam them together, shake them for eternity, but the moment they’re in a static state, they each retreat to their respective worlds.
That’s what Astrid and I are. Water and very flaming oil.
Ever since I first met her when we were fifteen, she was this free spirit who rebelled against what was expected and couldn’t care less about her aristocratic blood.
She has Uncle Henry’s fortune, name, and connections at the tip of her fingers, but never made use of them.
If anything, she abhorred them, and our life, and me—rightfully so considering I acted like a bitch toward her.
All because of the twat sitting beside me.
We dressed up, or I did anyway, pulling a dress over my head and covering my arms with the shawl.
Daniel is only in some shorts he grabbed from the wardrobe. His hair is a beautiful mess of light brown locks, falling over his forehead haphazardly.
His expression is still sleepy, bored even. His stance is definitely the latter judging by how his long legs are stretched, crossed at the ankles, and he has both his hands interlinked behind his head.
In this position, his abs contract, visible for anyone to see. Namely Astrid, who’s been pacing for the past ten minutes.
Is it wrong that I want to momentarily blind her so she doesn’t look at him? Yeah, it probably is. Doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about it.
“Sit down, you’re giving me a headache worse than my hangover.”
Astrid comes to a screeching halt and glares at him. She’s shorter than me, has long brown hair, and eyes so green they compete with the brightest grass.
She’s wearing simple short overalls and white tennis shoes. Nothing fancy, nothing flashy. This has been her fashion sense since we were teens.
Even though she’s now a renowned artist and married into the richest family in the country, nothing’s really changed about her looks or how she handles herself.