“Shhh,” he murmurs. I’m crying so hard I barely realize that he’s dragging me back up, folding me once more in his arms, soothing me by stroking my back and hair. “I don’t want you to apologize. If you think sucking my cock would be a way to apologize to me, then I don’t want you to do it.”
“Okay.” I sniff loudly as he wipes away my tears with his thumb. “It’s not. I just want to suck your cock.”
“Good try,” he whispers in my ear. “But my cock is special. You have to earn it.”
When I sense his lips twist up in a little smirk, the insecurities melt away just as abruptly as they appeared. His teasing reassures me far more than anything else could. It takes me a few deep breaths until I can trust my voice again. And then, I try to match his playfulness. “I want to earn it. How do I earn it?”
His fingers stroking my cheek gently tell me he sees right through me. “One full day of not apologizing, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you have it,” he whispers, making me shiver with want.
The last of the painful insecurity fades, as I let myself relax in his arms. “Fine,” I murmur, my voice muffled in his chest. “Butyour cock isn’tthatspecial, you know.”
Smirking, he digs his fingers into sides, and I giggle loudly, squirming in his arms. That seems to reawaken his urge, and he pushes me down on my back against the lounge chair, his hands never leaving me for a minute. They rove hungrily over my body, going under to my sweater to cup my breasts through my shirt, sliding down my waist and over the swell of my hips.
Then his eyes, darkening with lust, meet mine. “Take it off,” he rumbles.
“It?”
“All of it. Every single article of clothing. Now.”
“But I’m cold!” I protest.
“I’ll keep you warm. Do it quickly, or else.”
“Or else what?” I squeak.
“Or else I’ll rip it off you, and I won’t be gentle. Hope Logan brought a few extra changes of clothes.”
I blush hard. I want this. I wanthim. But the old insecurities come hurtling back, hardened with a new edge. Because if he sees my body the way it is right now, I worry he’ll be turned off for good.
My face has nothing on the large, nasty bruises covering much of my body. I’ve had two hard beatings, one after the other. There isn’t a part of me that doesn’t hurt. There isn’t a part of me that isn’t bruised.
Quill senses my hesitation, and his lips flattening into a line tell me he guesses at the cause of it. “Let me help you,” he says, his voice softer, his hands reaching for the waistline of my skirt.
I swallow. I don’t want to go back to apologizing, because clearly he doesn’t like that. I don’t know why I’ve changed so much. Why I’m so desperate to hold onto him now, after having convinced myself that I shouldn’t be with him.
I guess I was never all that convinced. All it took was feeling his arms around me in that cave to turn my righteous anger to clingydesperation, all my crushing insecurities rushing back up to the surface and making me terrified of losing him.
I’m brought out of my thoughts when he reaches around to unzip my skirt.
“Quill…” I whisper, reaching out a hesitant hand to stop him.
He doesn’tletme stop him, and weirdly, that makes me feel safe. It reminds me that he owns me. And I want that.
“You’re about to get very turned off,” I say in a weak attempt to laugh off the vision that will be assaulting his eyes in a few seconds.
He doesn’t answer, clenching his jaw and pulling my skirt off, then doing the same with my panties and tights. Then he pulls off my thick woollen sweater, but I’m too nervous to shiver.
He doesn’t allow himself to look at my bare skin yet, focusing instead on the buttons all down my blouse. He most definitely isnotripping off my clothes, instead hissing with impatience as he gently pulls each button out of its loop.
“Did Logan buy these clothes for you?” he grunts.
“Uhm,” I hesitate, wondering where he’s getting at with this, remembering how he once appeared jealous that I was sleeping in my dad’s shirt. “Yes.”
“Typical dad shit,” he lashes out. “Getting you a shirt with a hundred buttons on it to keep the boys away.”
I grin at his joke, then inhale sharply when the last thread of clothing has left me. I’m stark naked in front of him, and no matter how often that’s happened in the past—frequently in front of a Quill much more fully dressed than me, though that isn’t the case now—it’s always been pretty embarrassing to feel his eyes studying every last inch of me.
Now, it’s more embarrassing than ever, because I’m convinced he’s going to lose his hard-on permanently when he sees all my bruises.