Going Undercover Under the Covers
"I arched my hips against his hand, enticing him to come closer. His fingertip circled me once, slowly between my lips and over the little bud of nerve endings. This is what losing your mind feels like."
I had been pretty all my life, but no one had ever watched me as Mark Donahue watched me now — as if I were a mythical creature.
I hooked my elbows over the side of the tub, nipples pressed against the slick porcelain. I crooked a finger at him. "Come here," I said.
He was on his feet immediately. Slowly, I stood, naked skin steamy, smelling like Johanna's gardenias and roses, not like Wren at all. Like someone loved and desperately needed. His eyes went dark, but he kept his distance, as if I were the dangerous one.
I wasn't Johanna, but I was hardly Wren anymore. I was betraying Mark and falling for him. I wanted him and I was afraid of him.
Then, with deliberation, he came for me, touching a fingertip to my navel, tracing a bead of water. Those three fingers — index, middle, ring — trailed down my abdomen. My skin puckered up in goosebumps despite the heat. He moved closer, until his knuckles pressed against my belly, fingers moving lower, his skin against mine, until they reached the place where my thighs met, strands of my hair curling between each of his fingers. His hand curled into a fist.
With one quick tug, he forced me off balance in the slippery tub. Instinctively, I grabbed on to him to steady myself. My wet skin blotted his shirt. He had me, literally, by the short hairs. Too close to him now, but unable to untether myself. His breathing went ragged. The buttons of his shirt cut into my skin. The scent of him, swirling under the shelf of his jaw, made me bite my lip, just to feel the pressure against my mouth.
I wanted him. After years craving only numbness, despite the fact that I was afraid, I wanted him, and I didn't care what happened after. I craned up, pushing my body against his, pressing his locked fingers against me. He responded, rubbing a knuckle flirtatiously against my more sensitive parts. Every part of me reacted.
I kissed him, grazing my teeth against his bottom lip. He unclenched his fist, releasing me, and snaked both hands across my backside and then under each thigh. With one heave, he lifted me up, wrapping my legs around his waist. As if I weighed nothing, he carried me out of the bathroom and into the master.
In the cool of the bedroom, I shivered, water droplets slipping off my shoulders. Between my legs, the dampness was too warm, making me squirm. As he stood, silent, I became aware of how he was fully dressed while I lay naked and vulnerable.
"I want you ... to be her." He rested one knee on the side of the bed and leaned over me. "Can you do that?" He brushed the edge of his thumb against my lip. I tried to capture it with the flick of my tongue. He evaded me, tracing the line of my jaw and my neck, sending shivers across my skin.
I reached out, trying to draw him closer. With a quick turn of his body, he kept to himself, denying me access. His thumb snuck lower and skimmed my nipple, making me gasp as all the nerve endings tingled, demanding to be touched again. But he was already lazily swirling down my rib cage, tattooing slow figure eights across my belly.
"Answer me," he coaxed. How easy it would be to shuck the husk of who I'd become and be reborn as Johanna Donahue. Wren, and all her promises to Jeremy and the FBI, all her solitude and pain — all those things could disappear with her. Those were Wren's problems, not Johanna's. Johanna had a husband who loved her.
Johanna had no reason to betray Mark, no debts to pay. Johanna wasn't even alive to care if I slipped into her place.
His lips came down on mine. With dedicated patience, his mouth followed the trail his thumb had taken, across my jawline and down my throat. My neck arched, needing more of him, and the hand that had been circling my navel slid down to cup between my legs. I moaned. His hand stilled, ring finger resting against the opening of me, undoubtedly taking into account how completely slick I was down there. My face flamed and I squirmed to grab hold of him, to equal the footing between us — he was still fully dressed for goodness sake.
He edged out of my reach. "Say it," he demanded, withholding himself as if to punish me for my silence. His teeth grazed my nipple.
It was quite possible I was going to die of this torture. All those romance novels I'd read as a teenager talked about this, but as I'd gotten older, I'd thought those claims had been poetic license. I arched my hips against his hand, enticing him to come closer. His fingertip circled me once, slowly between my lips and over the little bud of nerve endings.
This is what losing your mind feels like.
Nothing mattered but that this continued. I would agree to whatever he asked. What were words compared to what he was doing?
His lips nibbled down my rib cage. I made a last, feeble attempt to take off his clothes, but he thwarted me easily, leaning over me, damp shirt brushing across my skin, a hundred percent out of reach. Still, I tried. His free hand caught mine and pinned it to the bed.
"Nothing has been good since I lost you," he said into my skin.
"I deserved you."
The barest scratch of 5 o'clock stubble singed the skin at my bikini line. He buried his nose in between my thighs. It was the most shockingly intimate thing anyone had ever done to me.
One hand holding mine and the other still firmly pressed against me, he inhaled. Did he smell me or Johanna? Everywhere on my damp skin, gardenias.
His tongue flicked against me, and my heart stopped. Again, he ran a velvety warm tongue over me. I could feel it building, this unstoppable thing inside me, cinching tighter.
He pulled back, cool air swirling where he'd been, making me whimper despite my utter embarrassment.
"Say your name." His tongue darted between my lips again, leisurely tasting me. For a moment I was there, going over the edge. At the last possible moment, he withdrew, his lips nuzzling my inner thigh.
He slipped a finger into me, fraction by fraction. "Do you want me?" He asked curiously.
"Yes," I panted. In desperation, my free hand came down to touch where he wouldn't. With an aggravated grunt, he grabbed both my wrists and held them together.
I would say whatever needed saying, so long as he finished what he'd started. I opened my mouth to will the words out. But like me, they wouldn't come. If I said them, whatever tattered piece that was still me would die. Not all at once, but day by day, unstoppable, until I was whatever version of Johanna he wanted me to be. No words after these would reverse it.
Even the ruffle of his breath nearly pushed me over the brink. "Please," I flushed, arching, humiliated and beyond caring. Every nerve ending sizzled like a live wire.
(The post originally appeared at Cosmopolitan.com & has not been edited by Team Kamuklife)