Page 54 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)

Amy

Let me tell you one thing. Bulletproof vest sex?

Definitely not living up to the hype. The stupid thing is heavy, inflexible and suffocatingly hot, and not in a fun way.

Wyatt and I—well, mostly me, since he’s in shape while I’m a couch potato—are drenched in sweat before we even get to the main part.

After nearly toppling over when trying to put my mouth on Wyatt’s cock, I angrily yank the stupid thing off.

“This was not as fun as it sounded,” I grumble, finally free to lick the copious pre-cum from Wyatt’s tip.

“Yeah,” he reluctantly agrees. “You did look hot, though.”

Wiping the sweat off my forehead, I glare at him. “I was hot! I’m keeping the knife, though. If you suggest this again, I’ll stab you instead.”

His cock jerks so hard it nearly slaps my cheek. “Incredible,” I say, shaking my head. “Stabbing gets you horny?”

“Well, not actual stabbing,” Wyatt replies, wearing his usual grin. “That’s about as fun as the vests. But you threatening to stab me? Fuck, Amy. I’m about to explode and you haven’t even touched me yet.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re weird. You know that, right? ”

“It’s one of my more endearing attributes.”

“Yeah, along with humility,” I tease, cutting Wyatt’s no doubt witty retort by taking his cock into my mouth.

He inhales sharply, his hand finding a way into my hair.

Leaning on his thighs, I can feel him tremble under me.

Partly from arousal, since his cock is hard as steel in my mouth, but I believe it’s at least partly from stress.

Or fear. Not for himself, but for me, for my life.

When he came back home, pulling me into his arms and holding me like his life depended on it, desperately making sure I was unharmed despite knowing there was no way I could have gotten hurt, my heart swelled with emotions too strong to name.

Or maybe I was just too afraid to name them.

After all, love might be the scariest word of all.

What if Wyatt doesn’t feel the same? His actions suggest he might have deeper feelings for me, but what if he doesn’t?

What if he’s become too jaded, the emotional part of him too broken to feel love?

Or, worse, what if he can feel love but doesn’t feel it for me?

What if me saying it destroys everything good we’ve been building here?

Our relationship is still precarious, still too new and fragile to survive an impact of the L-bomb.

My musings are roughly interrupted by Wyatt’s cock hitting the back of my throat. “Stay with me, cupcake,” he commands, likely having noticed how distracted I am. “You’re safe.” I’m not sure if the fervent words are supposed to convince me or himself. “We’re safe.”

“Yes, we are,” I try to say but it comes out as a gargled mess.

Laughing, Wyatt teases, “What was that, cupcake? Couldn’t quite understand you.”

Since he keeps holding my head down, I can’t answer. Not with words, at least. I can do something else, though. Sucking him as deep as I can without gagging, I swallow around his shaft. Groaning, Wyatt arches against me. “Fuck, Amy. Yes. Keep doing that.”

I swallow again, then back up for air. Wyatt lets me up this time, his cock popping free from my mouth. I blow air on the tip, grinning when Wyatt murmurs something unintelligible. “What was that, husband? Couldn’t quite understand you.”

“Such a brat.” Tightening his grip on my hair, he guides me to lie down on my back.

The knife he gave me for our little roleplay is strapped to my thigh over my pajama bottoms, so he has to remove it to undress me.

It’s silly, but I kind of miss it. Wyatt either senses it or he really loves seeing me wear it, because once my embarrassingly soaked bottoms are off, he straps the knife right back onto my bare thigh. And okay, I admit it’s really hot.

As he dives between my legs, his tongue tracing the familiar shapes of my pussy on its way to my clit, I thread my fingers through his hair. Hair that is still perfect despite everything tonight, which is incredibly unfair. I’m sure I must look like a wild forest creature compared to him.

Kissing his way down my thigh, Wyatt nips at the strap. “Fuck, this is so hot. Do you want to hold it to my throat when I fuck you?”

Christ on a stick, this man is something else. “Absolutely not. I don’t want to cut you.”

“Cupcake, you can cut me anytime.”

“Darling, I think you should schedule an appointment with Miranda because clearly, I’m not the only one who needs therapy in this relationship.

Now, will you please f-fuck me already?” I hate how I stumble on the f-word.

Wyatt says it all the time. Everyone does.

I don’t want to be that polite, well-behaved girl who can’t say “fuck” without blushing or stuttering anymore.

I’m changing, something deep down inside me waking up.

Breaking free. I don’t quite understand it, but being able to curse seems like a vital part of that process, so I’ve been trying. It’s surprisingly difficult.

Chuckling, Wyatt sucks my clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it until I cry out. He pushes me higher and higher, but it’s never enough to reach the peak. “Please, Wyatt, please!” I beg shamelessly. “I want your cock.”

“Do you now?” Flipping me over, he grabs my hips, pulling them up.

When his cock finally touches my opening, I whimper with relief.

Wyatt doesn’t hold back, plunging into me in a single thrust, my body recognizing and welcoming him.

Instead of moving inside of me, he pulls my upper body up, sinking back to his heels until I’m essentially straddling him.

With a hand on my throat, he makes me arch back until my head rests against his shoulder.

“Like this?” he asks roughly, his grip tightening.

“Or maybe you’d like to spice things up a little? ”

In a lightning-quick motion, Wyatt pulls my knife out and holds it to my throat.

As the cold metal makes contact with my heated skin, fear floods me, raw and powerful, making my muscles seize and my pussy clamp down on Wyatt’s cock.

He moans against the side of my neck, then bites me just inches away from where the blade is still poised.

I want to protest, to tell him how stupid this is. How dangerous. We could both get seriously hurt. But I can’t get a single word out, not when Wyatt is completely in control of the situation, of me, his cock pulsating inside of me, and I’m about to come without him even moving or touching my clit.

“Now, cupcake, be very, very still for me,” he warns. The hand not holding the knife moves from my throat down my chest, stopping to pinch my nipples, then continuing its journey until it reaches my clit.

“Wyatt…” I whimper. I’m so close but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stay still when I come.

“No, Amy. Not yet.” Rolling his hips, his cock moves inside of me a fraction, just to remind me it’s there. He circles my clit, the touch infuriatingly light.

I try to move, desperate for release even if it means slashing my own throat, but Wyatt doesn’t let me, slapping my inner thigh so hard I cry out. “Please, Wyatt.”

“Are you ready to come, cupcake? Ready to come all over my cock with the knife at your throat?”

“Y-yes. Please!”

His sigh sounds almost defeated. “You know I can’t refuse you anything.

” As fingers on my clit pick up their pace, rubbing my sensitive nub, my pussy begins clenching around Wyatt’s cock in an irregular rhythm.

“ God, Amy,” Wyatt exclaims, his voice hoarse.

“Fuck yes. Milk my cock. Fuck, you’re so tight. ”

The blade presses harder against my skin. Not cutting, I don’t think, but close enough to feed the exhilarating fear ravaging my body. I could die any second, yet I’ve never felt more alive.

When I finally come, it feels like I did die.

My eyes roll back, my vision blacks out, a high-pitched keen escaping me as my body locks up, my pussy squeezing the life out of Wyatt’s cock.

Only vaguely do I notice Wyatt tossing the knife away, his hand in my hair again, and then I’m on my front, sliding over the sheet as he ruthlessly thrusts into me.

It doesn’t take him long to come. With a broken moan, he stills inside me, the only movement his cock jerking with each wave of orgasm.

“Fuck, Amy.” Slumping down on top of me, Wyatt heaves a labored breath.

“You’re so damn perfect. I can’t believe you’re mine.

I-I—” Voice strangled, Wyatt pauses as if the words got stuck in his throat.

“I’m so happy with you,” Wyatt finishes eventually, but it’s clear that’s not what he was about to say.

I can’t help but wonder. Was he going to use the L-word?

Could I really be that lucky? Or am I just projecting?

Living in a fantasy, dreaming about something that’s never going to happen, like I did with Craig?

Craig told me he loved me, and I told him the same, over and over. Yet it meant nothing. Nothing at all. The more we said the word, the more it lost its meaning until it carried the same emotional weight as if we were saying, “Hey, what’s up?”

But with Wyatt, it would mean something again.

Something big. That’s why I can’t be the first one to say it, because his rejection would destroy me.

The new Amy might be confident, but she’s still too fragile.

The wrong word or a look might shatter her and I’m not sure I’d be able to pick up the pieces again.

“Asleep already?” Wyatt murmurs into my ear, mistaking my silence for exhaustion .

Now that he’s mentioned it, I realize how tired I am. “Well, it’s four in the morning.” I can’t believe that just two hours ago, I was asleep, blissfully unaware of the danger we’re in. “I’ll just go—”

“To the bathroom. Yeah. I know. Women really do pee a lot.”

Smacking his shoulder, I try to push him off me but he’s damn heavy. “Actually, peeing after sex is very much recommended. I’m not about to get a UTI just because my husband is insatiable.”

Laughing, Wyatt rolls onto his side. “Well, you’re not the only one who can whip up a great cream pie, wife.”

“Huh? You couldn’t bake to save your life.”

For whatever reason, it only makes him laugh harder. “So innocent. Go to that bathroom, Amy. We should go back to sleep.”

“Right.” Careful not to make a mess on the sheets, I slip out of bed. Only then does the meaning of Wyatt’s words hit me. Cream pie. Creampie. I choke on a gasp. “Oh. My. God. You did not just say that!”

“Ah, not so innocent after all,” Wyatt replies, his grin wide and teasing. “Did Miss Polite watch porn? Not that I’d mind. We can watch some together.”

Torn between the desire to strangle him and run for safety, I grab a pillow and smash it over Wyatt’s head. “No, we can’t! That’s-that’s not— That’s just wrong.” Is it, though? Damn him for making me question everything.

“There’s nothing wrong with getting some inspiration, cupcake, but I agree that we should leave it for tomorrow. Now go before I eat that creampie of yours.”

Gasping like a pearl-clutching matron from a Victorian novel, I make a hasty retreat to the bathroom. Mostly because my pussy seems very intrigued by Wyatt’s suggestion. Bad pussy!