“Does it matter?” I ask rhetorically.

“No.” At least in this, he’s honest. “Do you want my mouth, Mia?”

“No. I don’t want to come for you.”

Of course, I shouldn’t have told him that. I realize it immediately when he releases my hair and moves down between my legs, that horrible, beautiful mouth locking onto me, his stupid magical tongue igniting fire with the first few skilled strokes.

The last thing I want to do is beg him, but the second to last thing I want is for him to give me an orgasm. I have to pick one, so even as I clutch at the sheets and throw my head back into the pillow in response to mounting physical pleasure, I beg, “Please stop, Mateo. Please.”

He ignores my begging, clutching my thighs and eating my pussy like I begged him to keep going instead.

I hate how soothing it feels. I hate how every stroke of his tongue against my clit is like a salve to my heart, how his appetite for me feels so reassuring. And then I hate myself as I cry out, moving my hips against his sinful mouth, the source of so much of my pain bringing me a moment of blessedly mind-numbing pleasure.

I collapse against the bed and he moves back over my body, looking into my eyes as he pushes his cock inside me. I’m so wet and my body adjusts quickly to the intrusion.

A helpless moan slips out as he moves inside me, and I hate myself for it.

“Touch me, Mia.”

I shake my head, closing my eyes and letting my head fall to the side. “I don’t want you.”

“Yes, you do,” he argues, his thrust a more little punishing for my disobedience.

“Tell yourself whatever you have to,” I mutter.

The bastard laughs, a low, sexy laugh that makes me so mad I could spit. “I don’t have to tell myself anything, sweetheart. You know that.”

I intend to glare at him again, but since my eyes are still closed, I don’t see him coming; I’m unprepared for him to lean down and start kissing his way up and down my neck again. The sensations of his cock pounding inside me and his mouth on my skin overwhelm me, and I get swept up in this evil bastard again. I feel so much when he’s inside me. The hand he’s not using to brace his weight slips up under the camisole we didn’t bother to take off. He squeezes my breast, his thumb brushing across my nipple. I cry out, not with an orgasm, just because I’m overwhelmed and I want him to stop. I just want him to stop rolling over me, sucking me into this intense vortex where pleasure and pain come together, where right and wrong don’t exist, where he completely consumes me. He gets every single part of me, whether he deserves it or not.

But he doesn’t stop, not until he comes. And when he relaxes on top of me, his weight crushing me, I can’t keep from wrapping my arms around him. I can’t keep from holding onto him. Maybe he’s the cyclone who rips through and ruins everything, but he’s the strongest thing I have to hold onto.

Chapter Eighteen

Meg

We let Mia pick dinner tonight.

To say it’s not how things are done would be an understatement—Morelli dinners are always planned out literally weeks in advance, groceries purchased, prep done—but since Mia is having such a rough time and I want to make her feel better, I decide a nice “I’m really sorry our sorta husband murdered your boyfriend” gesture would be letting Mia pick dinner.

And Mia picks tacos.

Which turns out to be an issue, since Mateo never ever has tacos on the menu, so we have no tortillas. Maria is in here helping with dinner instead of Cherie, and she must like Mia more than she likes me, because after Mia gets the sad news that we don’t have tortillas, Maria disappears for a few minutes and comes back with the goods.

“Score!” I say, grinning and grabbing one of the bags to show Mia. “See, Maria came through for us.”

I think Maria swears at me in Spanish, but I don’t care. Mia’s almost smiling, and that makes me happy.

“I’m so glad to have you back in here,” I tell Mia, as I dump bags of taco fixings on the counter. “I’m pretty sure family dinner is where we’re going to really rock this sister wife thing.”

That makes her wince, and I realize she probably still hates Mateo. I’m horrified at having brought it up, not only because it brought her pain, but because the last thing I can handle right now is possible verification that Mateo is forcing his affections on her. Since that horrible night, I’ve already thought about leaving him more times than I ever imagined leaving Rodney, and I didn’t love him. But Rodney was just a useless goober; Mateo is dangerous.

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