Free Trust in Me by Skye Warren Page B

maybe, possibly, it could be different with Tyler. I wanted to know what it would be like to have sex with a guy I …well, the man that I had come to care about. I could be honest here and now, riding this adrenaline high. God knew time was running out.
    And the fact that he didn’t love me back, that he knew I was a disgusting whore, that was all the better. He wouldn’t get wrapped up in a fairytale that didn’t have any hope of coming true.
    Still with my back to the door, I dropped to my knees in front of him. My knees screamed in protest, bruised as they were, but I ignored them, putting my hands to the bulge, unbuttoning.
    “Christ.” He grabbed my hands, held them still, but didn’t move them away. I could feel his indecision tightening his grip, as if he wanted me but wished he didn’t. I knew all about that.
    A frisson of shame raced along my skin, sharpening my arousal. He didn’t want me. It couldn’t be more clear. But the vision, the fantasy, held me enthralled. Maybe I could have it. I didn’t need it to be real. I only needed tonight. I’d make it good for him.
    “Please.” I looked up at him, begged him. “Just pretend. Pretend you love me.”
    “Oh, hell,” he said as his eyes closed. He looked like he was in pain, real pain.
    “Only for tonight. I won’t expect more.”
    “It shouldn’t be like this for us,” he mumbled, but his hands loosened just a fraction.
    “I’ll do what you ask,” I whispered. “I’ll get out when Carlos leaves. I’ll go to Zachary.”
    His eyes snapped open, and I knew he understood what I just offered and all that it implied. That I had planned on getting myself killed, despite what he had said about running off to Zachary. But if I could just have this, this pretend fairytale night, then I would do what he wanted. I’d live.
    I could only hope the trade would be worth it in the end.
    “Come.” He picked me up off the floor, and I thought he was rejecting me, but it was only the blowjob he rejected. With a solemnity more appropriate to a funeral, he led me to the bed and laid me down. I tried to hold back my gasp when my back touched the bed, but he heard it anyway and turned me gently onto my stomach.
    I groaned. This wasn’t part of the dream. Lovers didn’t do it doggy-style, did they?
    But this wasn’t doggy style. This wasn’t anal. This wasn’t anything I was familiar with, as he breathed feather-light kisses along my hairline and down my jaw. His hands trailed after his mouth, as if he were desperate to touch me all over, everywhere. I luxuriated in the illusion.
    My hands scrabbled at the sheets and held on as his mouth dipped lower, down the back of my neck. Shivers rippled all the way down my spine, pain and pleasure.
    “Mia,” he said softly.
    I moaned, unable to speak but praying it wasn’t over. Praying it would never end.
    “Mia,” he repeated. “You’re beautiful. You are.”
    His finger drew the silhouette of my face, starting from the bridge of my nose, down to brush across my lips. I believed him, not out of vanity, though I’d been told that enough times to think it was true. I was thankful he thought so. Thankful my appearance brought him pleasure.
    Slowly, so slowly, he peeled the clothes off me, tenderly lifting each limb as he did so. He kissed each place, each patch of skin he uncovered. God, he was so good at this. He was so good at pretending that I couldn’t imagine the real thing feeling any better.
    He skipped over the bruises and the welts, only sucking in a sharp breath or muttering a curse at the worst ones. That tarnished the illusion, the fact that my body had to be so broken for this. But I was running out of time with him. We had to do it now or we never would.
    His fingers found me wet, already bucking into the blanket. I’d come plenty of times. And with men, too, not just by my own hand. People thought that whores didn’t get off, but that wasn’t true. Carlos would make me come if he thought it