Page 17 of Bordeaux Bombshell (Sunshine Cellars #3)

Sydney

The bastard is edging me on purpose. His tongue and fingers work against my aching slit, always moving away or just to the side of where I really want him.

His free hand roams my body, kneading at my breast, tracing my torso and the tattoo that decorates my ribs.

I’m sprawled out, my arms gripping the back of the couch, giving me leverage to arch up and into his space.

To beg for the orgasm he’s denying me without having to embarrass myself by using words.

He’s made me come in two minutes flat enough times that I know he’s proving a point. He’s only going to do the job properly when he’s inside me.

He wants us to be in the moment, but the moment is colored by the tangle of our past. Instead of spiraling into my memories, I’ve been fighting to hold on to some semblance of control over this situation. And at every turn, he’s pushed back in order to keep his own.

When he suggested the bed, I opted for the couch, determined to keep my bedroom a sanctuary.

I offered to get a condom, and he insisted he had his own.

The worst part is that each time he pushes back against my words, it turns me on even more.

And despite my body begging me to let go and fuck like monkeys, I’m not willing to give ground and neither is he.

Two immovable objects crashing in slow motion.

Tectonic plates that have been rubbing against each other for so long that the impending earthquake promises to be more destructive the longer we hold it off.

“Goddammit, Nate,” I snap when the flat of his tongue stops shy of my clit for the third time. “Either fuck me properly or get out so I can do it myself.”

The words are barely out of my mouth before Nate lifts his face, abandoning my pussy to stare down at me, fists on his hips, his sheathed cock bobbing ridiculously in the air. “What did you say?” he growls, beard and lips shiny, wet, and tempting.

I dart out a hand and grip his cock. He grunts but doesn’t move as I push myself to sitting. “I said—” I pause to lick along the line of his Adonis V, stopping before I get to the most sensitive skin near his balls. “Fuck me properly or go home.”

Being angry is safe. My righteous fury is a wall of fire protecting my heart from the ice Nate has doused it with time after time. Being a little mean, a little vindictive, even as I give in to the way my body craves his touch, is the only way I’ll survive this.

Lightly, I suck one of his balls into my mouth, rolling the soft skin against my tongue. The hand gripping his cock works up and down while the other scratches a path up his thigh and around to squeeze his firm ass.

“Sydney…” He groans my name, the final syllable shaking as I dig my nails into his glute. “Fuuuuuck.”

Releasing him from my mouth, I glare up at him. “That’s the goal, yes.”

Strong hands wrap around my waist, lifting and flipping until I find myself facedown in a throw pillow, my ass in the air. Nate’s cock slides between the lips of my pussy when he thrusts forward. He’s gripping my hips so tight I can’t move. “Say please.”

“No.”

He thrusts again, his cock hard and firm, but still not inside me where I want it. “Use your manners, Hellcat.”

Am I naked, ass up, and pussy drenched on the couch? Yes. Is Nate holding my hips so I can’t move, millimeters from sliding inside me? Also yes.

If it were anyone but him, I would feel vulnerable.

Arching my back to rub against him, I look over my shoulder.

And even though I might regret this, I don’t stop the confession that boils up from the bottom of my soul.

“I begged you once, and you left anyway. So I swore I would never ask you for anything ever again. This is me telling you to make up your mind, and either fuck me or leave.”

As I inhale, he grips his cock, stroking himself while his eyes range over my body.

His thighs shake against the back of my legs, as if it’s taking all his strength to hold himself up.

He’s the picture of a man whose animal instincts are screaming at him to slam home inside me, but who refuses to give in.

For the first time in years, I feel one hundred percent in control of what happens next between us.

I am choosing to change the unspoken rules of our relationship because, frankly, him fingering me is no longer enough.

I don’t just want to scratch an itch. I want to shred my skin, tear my heart up into pieces so tiny the only way to come back is to melt it down and pour it into a new mold.

One that doesn’t have Nathaniel Ridgefield mixed into every molecule.

But the only way to do that is to blow everything up, so with a lazy blink, I add, “If you leave, just know you will never get to touch me again.”

His face changes the moment my threat registers. Without another word, he lines himself up and fills me. His cock scrapes against my inner walls, and relief floods through me at the sensation, escaping me in a low “Fucking finally.”

The hand that was stroking his cock wraps around my ponytail, pulling my head back as his hips start a slow but forceful motion. “Unacceptable,” he growls into my ear, his teeth nipping at the lobe. “Haven’t you figured out by now that the one thing you will always be, Sydney Anne Adams, is mine?”

With each thrust of his hips, Nate reminds my body that this is what it’s supposed to feel like. That his body and mine are molded to each other, whether by nature or nurture, each groove and peak perfectly fitting with every stroke.

It feels so good that I’m consumed by it. Pleasure and rage build equally inside me, burning white hot. My first orgasm barrels up my spine after a few strokes, and I let out a deep and satisfied moan as it burns away the impurities infecting me, left behind by the man currently groaning my name.

“So fucking tight. God, you feel good. No one feels as good as you.” Nate’s words are punctuated by the slow slide of his cock in and out of my pussy, milking more ripples of pleasure down my spine before he pulls out completely.

A whine escapes me, and he chuckles. “You think I’m done with you, tiger? Not even close.”

He sits on the couch and tugs my hips until I’m straddling him, our chests touching with each inhale. I wrap my hands around his length, still stiff and hot as I stare at the art on the wall behind the couch. Lifting my hips, I guide him inside me before dropping down.

Tendrils of heat bloom across my skin as his hands drift along my sides, my pace slowing in order to catch my breath.

Whenever he leans in, I arch my back or turn my face so his lips land on my neck and jaw and not on my mouth.

It’s not only my lungs that need a minute.

My heart is pounding in my chest, and it’s not solely from the exercise.

As if he can sense the thoughts swirling around my mind, Nate grips the back of my neck, squeezing when I try to pull free.

“Don’t. Don’t wander off, Sydney.” He takes my lips hostage in another searing kiss, his tongue demanding entry until I sigh in resignation.

The second my lips part, his tongue invades my mouth.

Pulling away after a moment, I tease, “Greedy, greedy. Is it not good enough that I’m giving you this? You also need my undivided attention?”

When he answers, it’s not with the same teasing tone I expect. “I’ve had to share you with everyone our whole lives. I’ve got you all to myself right now, and I intend to keep it that way.” His words are measured, sincere, as if he’s thought about this before.

I slow my pace, freezing with his cock still inside me while I struggle to respond. I thought this was just a release, an angry fuck to clear the tension between us. “Nate, I—”

He cuts me off with a kiss that scrambles my thoughts again before he pulls away. “Don’t think, just feel. Everything else can wait.”

I probably shouldn’t, but it’s all so confusing that I latch on to his permission to give in. Wrapping an arm around my hips, he sets a punishing pace from beneath me, and I grab the back of the couch and hang on as he pounds into me.

It doesn’t take long before another orgasm builds in my core. I don’t fight it, letting it build and roll through me until Nate stiffens beneath me, his cock pulsing, and I relax against him.

My arms hang boneless at my side as I lie against his chest. “That was…” I suck in a breath, unsure how to finish my thought. I’m trying hard not to think, which makes it easy to let my sentence hang in the air unfinished.

Rough hands dance over the skin of my back before Nate presses a kiss to the side of my head. “Yeah. That was…” He trails off too.

The fact that neither of us knows what to say makes me feel better and infinitely worse at the same time. What happens now?

Before it gets too awkward, his phone starts buzzing from the pile of clothes on the floor. Extricating myself from his lap, I reach down and pull it out of his back jeans pocket, glancing at the screen before handing it over.

Manon.

Immediately, a memory of long legs, dark hair cut into a chic bob, and a melodic laugh assaults me. I scramble off Nate’s lap and toss the phone beside him. “I need a drink.”

I snag a blanket off the couch and wrap it around me, desperately trying to tune out Nate’s confident French as I yank open the fridge in search of the bottle of wine I opened last night.

I started making it a point to drink cocktails when I’m out, because fuck Nate, but in the privacy of my home, I allow myself to indulge.

“Salut mon chou. Tu as recu mon message?”

He’s silent for a long moment while she answers, his eyebrows drawing together.

My hand shakes as I pour myself a glass.

How dare he? That motherfucker just demanded I ignore everything except for him, and yet the second he got off, he’s answering phone calls.

And not just any phone call. A French phone call. A female French phone call.

“Oui, ca va. Quand peux-tu venir?”

I’m not sure what’s pissing me off more right now. The fact that he’s sitting naked on my couch, legs spread and one arm thrown over the back like he fucking lives here. Or the fact that hearing him speak French so well is really fucking sexy and makes me horny all over again.

When he followed me through my front door, I secretly hoped I could show him this bottle of wine—a frappato from Sicily—but now I want to finish the whole thing myself.

“La semaine prochaine, ca serait parfait…Je me réjouis…Rester chez moi.”

My delightful post-orgasm glow fades the longer he talks. The girlish part of me that wanted to impress him with an unusual find consumed by anger when I recognize at least the last two words he said.

Chez moi.

At mine.

Truce is off, motherfucker.