Searching for Mine(34)

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he grit out. “I don’t want to go fast.”

She spread her legs wide and offered herself up. “Hurt me. Take me. Now.”

He grasped her panties and tore. The material fell off, leaving her bare. He said her name, in a curse or a prayer, and surged inside her.

Ella gasped, embracing the raw edge of pain and pleasure as he filled her completely. Her body surrendered under his gentle hands, his rough thrusts that pushed her to the edge again, trembling under the force of earth-shattering tension and need.

She memorized every line of his face, every spark in his eyes. She gave him everything as he claimed her body and soul, and let herself fly with no other thought than to give in to the wracking waves of pleasure that claimed her body.

Gripping her hips and yanking her higher, he thrust even deeper, his fingers playing with her clit, and she whispered his name over and over as she came again.

“Yes, yes, fucking perfect. Fucking mine.”

With a growl, he joined her, slamming his hips and taking her mouth in a deep, soul-stirring kiss.

Time paused. Their breathing slowed. Quiet fell.

Moving slowly, he removed and disposed of the condom, pulled up his jeans, and eased her gently to a sitting position. Ella watched in silence, not able to speak or think. He pulled down her skirt, eased up her jacket, and picked her up from the counter, walking into the living room.

Sitting down on the couch, he cuddled her on his lap and pulled the afghan over both of them. With a sigh, she laid her cheek against his chest, breathing in his scent. He stroked her hair and pressed his lips to the top of her head.

“I just want to hold you for a little while,” he said quietly. “Is that okay?”

She held him tighter, snuggling into the warmth, and closed her eyes. “Yes.”

Then she drifted to sleep.





Chapter Twelve



“Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.”—Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse



Connor stared at his test, trying to get his head in the game.

Cliché.

God, what had he done?

Her voice filled the classroom in a lilting melody that haunted him. She walked on soundless shoes, back and forth in front of the classroom, dressed in her usual attire. Long dark skirt. Black ballet-type slippers. A loose mid-sleeve sweater in a dull beige. Her hair was still up, but her bun wasn’t as severe, and several silky locks escaped and pressed against her cheek. The glasses were back, sliding down her nose at regular intervals, and she used a scarlet-painted fingernail to jam them back in place. The orange lipstick was gone, replaced by a stained red that made it hard for him to concentrate on her words.

She was back to herself, but different. Everything had now changed. He knew how soft and silky her skin was underneath her clothes; knew the muscled strength of her legs as she wrapped them around his hips; knew how her tight, wet pussy clenched around him when he thrust inside her; knew the stinging bite of her teeth and the ripe fruit of her lips.

He’d spent all night imagining her kissing another guy. Imagining his friend, his Ella, belonging to someone else. He’d drank a beer and brooded, and soon he’d worked himself into such a state, when she came through the door he’d lost control.

He was wrecked. He couldn’t stop thinking about that night, though three full days had passed without contact. He’d slipped away in the middle of the night, disentangling himself with her warm body. He thought about showing up at her door the next morning to talk. He thought about calling her. Instead, he took on back-to-back shifts, arriving home late, then spending hours on his homework.

He knew he’d see her today and planned to arrive early. Exchange a few words.

But he’d gotten caught in traffic and walked into class late. She hadn’t even deigned to make a comment, keeping her gaze firmly averted and her focus on her lecture.

He was a monster. He’d slept with her and disappeared. She must despise him. This was the reason he didn’t get involved with messy, raw emotions with women. This was the reason he stayed away from relationships and kept things light.

Nothing was light with Ella.

The big red C+ reflected his growing understanding of literature. What began as a boring, torturous class had evolved into a foray of thoughts and words that affected him. He’d finished Jane Eyre, tore through Brontë, and actually went back to find more of their work. They were nearing the end of the semester, and as long as he passed the final and turned in his extra credit paper, he’d graduate with honors.

Finally, she dismissed the class and he took the familiar path to her desk. He waited his turn while she spoke to some other students, and then the room emptied.