“I could kill you by blowing into your vagina.” He lay with his ear against her naked inner thigh and teased her clitoris with his thumb.
“Do you want to kill me?” she asked, her breath short, her question a moment too long in coming.
He swirled his fingers inside her. Watched her belly heave, saw her eyes focus on something beyond the white-washed ceiling. “Sometimes.”
Her breath caught on her tongue. “When?”
“When you let him touch you.” His hand continued teasing and stroking and rubbing, but his mind had departed. His mind fell into that dragon’s pit, deep, red, raging, and it clung to the walls of his anger. “He probably doesn’t know that. How easily and sexually one can kill a woman.”
She’d grown still.
“Of course, it doesn’t happen every time. If I blew in you, you might live to feel the ecstasy. You probably would. It’s like roulette.” His fingers spread her open, played around her wet lips. She was motionless. Mistrusting. He felt it stiffen her spine, cool her blood. “You think I’d do it, don’t you?” He grinned.
She was too quick to answer. “Of course not.”
“No, I’m not.” She raised herself on her elbows. Her breasts rested on her ribcage like soft water balloons.
“Why do you let him touch you?”
“He’s my husband!” Her green eyes sparked, then hooded. “I don’t have a choice. You knew that when we started.”
“You should leave him.”
“I don’t want to.”
He nodded, his fingers still playing inside her but getting no reaction. It irritated him, that she could turn herself off while he stayed hard and needing. “But you don’t love him. You love me.”
Her eyes danced away.
“You don’t love him. You love me,” he repeated. His fingers spread her until she grimaced.
“I do love him.”
“Then why the hell are you lying here like a whore?” His voice hovered on the top of a whisper. “Why are you feeding me on your sex? Why are you dishonoring two men at once?”
“I love you both.”
“You can’t tell me what is or isn’t possible for me,” she ground. “You don’t know. You don’t know anything but how to kill a woman with pleasure. Or what you think is pleasure.” She tried to draw up her knees, to close him out, but he prevented her. “Maybe,” she whispered, hoarse. “Maybe I don’t love you at all. You’re some fantasy I had to live out, and now I have.”
He withdrew his hand from her body. “Bullshit.”
“Let me go. I have to go.”
He shook his head. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to make certain she couldn’t go back to another man’s bed, that his was the only cock to fill her, the only hands to cradle and cup her. But he didn’t want there to be no life behind her eyes, no passion in the movement of her hips. She had great hips. Wide and forgiving. A man could bury himself in them and go crazy with their generosity. “I love you,” he said. “You love me. It’s meant. We both know it.”
“You’ve lost your mind. You’ve lost your fucking mind. Let me up.”
He held her thighs. “Please, don’t make me hurt you.”
“I’m not making you do anything!”
“Just stay. Please. Let me make love to you—“
“God, you’ve turned sick,” she hissed. She struggled, her breath panting, and he watched as her nipples grew hard and dark, and he breathed the hot smell of her. Her legs bucked against him, and his mind refused to focus on anything else. Just the strain of her muscles and the color of her breasts and the smell of her sex. And he knew if he could blow into her, watch her fear and her pleasure, he’d come, and he wanted to come, to come against the bed sheets while she writhed beneath his mouth.