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Page 25


“This is for you, Valentine. Because I love you. Because you saved me. Because you’ve given me so much.” She was breathing deeply, not panting but merely dragging deep, calming breaths in and letting them out slowly. “Do you know me? You see me? You feel me? You do, don’t you, Valentine?”

“Kyrie….” It was all the reassurance I had to offer.

It took every ounce of strength I possessed to keep still as she straddled me. Even more than it took to move off her earlier.

“Do you love me, Valentine?” She seemed so desperate to hear it, to be reminded.

I swallowed past the lump of emotion in my throat, past the raging chemical torment, aching to hold her in my hands, to kiss her skin, to taste the salt of her flesh, the sweet tang of the juices between her thighs. “Yes…fuck yes, Kyrie. So much. You don’t—ahhh, god help me…you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do. I do. I can’t watch you endure this torture any longer.”

“That’s no reason. I’ll survive. I survived it once. Survived worse. I’ll be fine.”

That didn’t help her at all. She fell forward, fighting sobs. “God, Valentine. What did she do to you?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t revisit that. Not now. Not with Kyrie sitting on top of me. Not with this need inside me, not with the drug gripping me, shredding me, controlling me. Even making coherent sense with my words took effort, and to recount what I’d endured would wreck me. I needed strength for that, and I was weak in that moment.

Another wave of boiling, magma-hot sexual fervor took me, sent a sheen of sweat coating me as I fought to keep still, to keep from thrusting upward. I could feel her, so close. So close. Her pussy was inches from my cock, sliding against my navel. All she had to do was lean forward just so and take me in, and I’d find relief.

“Please, please…fuck, Kyrie…please….” I was begging. I couldn’t stop myself from pleading with her to take mercy on me. I was barely even aware of what I was saying.

I had no control left, none. My body writhed and bucked beneath her, and she rode it out, lower lip caught between her teeth, eyes wavering and wet.

And then…sweet Jesus…I felt her small warm gentle strong hand on my cock, and I knew her touch, knew even with my eyes closed the feel of her hand around me, and I breathed in deeply and let it out and soaked up the bliss of her touch, the glory of her body on top of me, tried furiously to block out everything else but the knowledge that this was Kyrie, my Kyrie. I knew her scent, knew the smell of her deodorant and the conditioner in her hair and the lotion on her skin, the way it all mixed together with her sweat and the unique indefinable scent of Kyrie-ness. I knew the feel of her thighs clenched around my hips, knew from the way she sucked in her breath and shifted forward that she was about to slide me inside her. I fought to hold still, to stop myself from driving up and in before she was ready, fought to let her do this, rather than take what I so badly needed. I growled in my throat and gritted my teeth until I thought my jaw would crack from the pressure.

“Open your eyes, Valentine. Look at me as we do this.” Her voice was low, barely a murmur, but it cut through me.

I forced my eyelids to open, forced my gaze to hers. Eyes so blue, like polished sapphires, like the Aegean, locked on mine, love and affection and heated need of her own now warred with the darkness, with a deepening rage, with frantic misery. She knew. She knew just by looking at me, by my refusal to answer her question, what had been done to me. Perhaps not the details, but she knew.

And she knew as well that this, what was happening in this moment, would change things between us. I wanted to beg her not to do this, to let me suffer. But such was my weakness that I couldn’t. Couldn’t.

With a small sigh through parted lips, her bluest blue eyes on mine, Kyrie sat down on me, impaled herself on my cock. I groaned in relief, could have cried from the sweet familiar clenching wet warmth of her pussy around me. “God…Kyrie…oh god. You feel so good. Nothing…nothing has ever felt so good as you right now.”

She whimpered as she drove her ass down flush to my hips, filling herself with me. “Roth…my Valentine.” Her eyes closed involuntarily, and her head dropped between her arms as she braced herself on my chest.

“I love—I love—oh, oh god, Kyrie…I love you.” It took everything I had in that moment to separate the insanity of need and glorious relief enough to make sense of my own mind, to get the words out for her.

She sobbed and fell forward, clinging to my neck with desperate strength, almost choking me, writhing her hips in a slow undulation. “Roth. Roth. Roth.”

No one ever said my name the way she did. My last name, on her lips, during love like this, was a prayer, a whispered plea and a term of unfathomable endearment.

“Kyrie.”

Wetness slid hot against my neck where her face was pressed into my flesh, the dampness of tears. Her mouth slid against my flesh, stuttered down to my chest, lips pressed in a kiss, held there for a moment as she lifted her hips to draw me out, her pussy sliding wet and slick against my throbbing, aching cock. Her hands held her weight on my shoulders, pushing me down into the bed.

And she moved. Glided down, her ass to my hips, her pussy squeezing around me. Oh, I knew that, too, the way her muscles clenched around me, the way her breathing was coming in short gasps, the way her face scrunched up and her lips fell open. She was close.

But she didn’t. She held it off. Sat down firmly on me, my dick buried deep inside her, and leaned back. Stared down at me. Debated something internally. She leaned to the side, grabbed her jeans off the floor and dug in the hip pocket, producing a small key.

“No, Kyrie, don’t. I’m barely holding back—”

She ignored me and inserted the key into the cuff around my wrist. The key turned in the lock, and, for the first time in I wasn’t sure how long, I was totally free. I didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look at my wrist. A twist, and my other hand was free as well. And then, just like that, the only thing keeping me in place was my own will.

“I trust you, Valentine.” She leaned over again, picked up her T-shirt and ripped a length of cotton free from the hem, wrapped it gingerly around my wrist, around the burning, bleeding wounds, and then did the same for the other side. “I can’t handle seeing you handcuffed like this. It’s killing me, baby.”

“Kyrie….” I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, if I could make sense of the turbulence in my soul.


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