Pitch Imperfect(6)

Would she dissolve the moment he entered her, or shatter like breaking glass?

Anjuli rotated her palm around his root and he made another strangled noise, sucking her nipple so hard she gasped. The sound of her name, deep and hoarse, resonated in the muffled acoustics of her bedroom. Anjuli tried to speak and couldn’t, her vocal chords only vibrating with the husky cadence of her moans.

With a low groan Rob rose over her, pausing for a brief moment to kiss her lips before he found her entrance. There was nothing slow or sensual in his thrust, nothing hesitant, and no allowances made for his size and girth. He sought her core like a man long denied sustenance. Hungrily. Desperately. Needing to fuse every inch of his skin with hers and seal himself inside.

His lips were hard and demanding, his hands hot on her flesh. Fast and deep, he took her to the brink, teasing her until she pleaded with him to give her the release she needed, the pleasure that would take away her pain. He withdrew, poised and throbbing between her thighs.

“Don’t stop,” Anjuli panted, bucking her hips to make him slide back in. “Hold me.”

“I’m no’ letting you go,” he said, punctuating his words with a slow, sensual thrust. “No’ this time.”

Over and over he repeated his promise, until his voice cut through Anjuli’s whisky-swamped brain and his words turned her heaven into horror. Her mind cleared and sharpened. She wanted him more than she ever had, wanted to rejoice that they had found each other, yet she couldn’t.

Rob repeated his promise, so sweet, so bitter. Too late. Eight years had passed and now...She didn’t deserve a second chance to be happy. Not anymore. Anguish tore through her with every thrust of his hips.

How could sorrow co-exist with ecstasy, and pain make her pleasure more intense?

Anjuli bucked her hips to dislodge him, making him penetrate her more deeply. Her mind was screaming but her pussy didn’t care. It was a liquid pool of greedy selfishness. She bucked harder and Rob upped the delicious friction, increasing the ripples of delight. His voice vibrated in her ears, resonating with every particle of her that longed to immerse itself in his frantic need.

The chasm in her heart grew deeper as the rapture increased. She had to give him up, convince him to walk away, but his gaze was intent on her eyes, her lips, her body, his expression intense and determined. She recognised that look, the one that said he’d made up his mind and was planning, calculating the logistics of a London-Heaverlock relationship.

She could say this was a mistake, explain she couldn’t love him and why. Another man might walk away, then, but not Rob. Holding her tightly, thrusting into her mind and body he seemed a part of her. The man she’d almost married—a man who would give her compassion when all she deserved was condemnation. The thought strengthened Anjuli’s resolve even as her traitorous body followed his insistent rhythm.

Hands on her thighs, Rob pulled her legs around his hips, lifting her off the bed. At this angle her enjoyment was excruciating and she clung to him, unable to stop her reason melting away.

“God, I want you,” he said. “I want this. Tell me you want it too.”

Anjuli wrapped her hands around his neck, pulling him tighter, showing him with her body what her mind could no longer deny. Rob withdrew and she whimpered, moaned as he paused, then drove into her with a long, commanding thrust.

“Come with me.”

No! She had to stop, but, oh God, the tidal wave inside her was going to break. Angering Rob wouldn’t be enough; she had to make him despise her. She clutched his buttocks, squeezed his shaft.

“Anjuli,” he groaned, teeth grazing her neck.

Goosebumps spread under her palms as his orgasm ripped through him, and she catapulted into bliss. With her climax came her answer. She was a singer not an actress, but she would put on the performance of her life.

“Brendan,” she shouted, scrunching her eyes shut. “Harder, Brendan.”

Rob jerked to a halt. He lifted his head from her neck and stared at her. “Brendan?”

Anjuli grabbed his shoulders and tried to pull him back. “Don’t stop, Brendan. You’re making me come.”

Rob tore himself from her body, his breathing ragged. Orange street lights showed the shock on his face and the tension in his body; the thin sheen of sweat on his skin. His erection. “Who the hell is Brendan?”

Anjuli pulled up the duvet and covered herself, cleared her throat and aimed for nonchalance. “Does it matter?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “It matters to me.”

“Do you interrogate every woman you screw?” she forced herself to ask.

His voice dropped so low she could barely hear. “Is that what this is to you? A screw?”