Free Bittersweet (Xcite Romance) by Alyssa Turner Page A

stopping me in my tracks. ‘What I see is fire in your eyes when you look at me, and the way you make sure I can’t possibly find anyone else more attractive.’
    He proved his point, dressing me down with his firm grip on my wrist and his blunt exposure of my deliberate seduction, making me instantly wet. Though I attempted to dismiss both his argument and the combustible spark between us, he seemed to rule the flame – stoking it at will. It was becoming clear that for once, I was out-matched, and I floundered a bit, stunned from the unfamiliar sensation and at a loss for a comeback. I pulled my arm and he grasped me tighter. I sighed and tried to sound contrite: ‘This is the part where you let go, and I walk out.’
    ‘I’ll let go,’ he said, ‘but Sabrina, don’t you think for a minute that the truth will be any less true.’
    ‘What is the truth, Keith?’ I asked as his hold softened.
    ‘That you can’t stop this. And you won't deny yourself the chance at the kind of happiness you can only find with your equivalent.’ His fingertips only barely grazed my wrist now, but his hold on me was never greater.
    Keith was like a magnet and even as I attempted to shrug him off, I was drawn to him more than I wanted to be. He closed the distance between us and I seemed controlled by kinesis as he commanded me with his gaze. When finally he kissed me, I melted in the undeniable hunger for his mouth on mine. His mouth was hot and luscious beyond the trim beard of brown streaked with grey. And his hands were large and gripping my hair, holding my head at attention as he sampled my cheeks and my neck. I loved the power in his grip and the wildness of his impatience. It was a surprising contrast to the relaxed confidence he most often wore with a corduroy sports jacket and his favourite jeans.
    This man, who neither spoke before carefully crafting his words nor ever rushed in or out of a thought, was pushing me onto his desk and stripping himself of his clothing without skipping a beat. In his office, he could have been discovered at any moment with his face buried in my blouse and his cock disappearing beyond my panties. The power of his thrusts made me hold tight to the edge of his desk, as I clung to the remnants of my decorum. He moved inside me at a feverous tempo, needful in his pace. And the sound of flesh on flesh was like applause in the room among my stifled moans. It was dangerous and forbidden; a risk that was a more potent stimulant than either of us could resist. The memory of that thrilling day had my hand meandering around the waistband of my flannel pyjamas as I absently toyed with the idea of a solo re-enactment.
    Keith inhaled deeply next to me in the bed. He was still asleep but apparently entering REM state. I wondered if he was dreaming about me – about waking up to slide my legs apart and fill me with his swollen dick. ‘Dream on, sweetie,’ I muttered sarcastically and instantly felt guilty. Keith hadn’t been able to get hard since the near-fatal car accident that left him paralysed from the waist down, and we hadn’t had sex in more than ten months.
    We hadn’t had an argument since he came home from the hospital, either. Silence can truly be deafening, and Keith’s increasing disdain for conversation was like a noose around my neck. A kiss amidst his steady breaths was a reassurance for myself as much as for him that our love was still strong, even as the beguiling man I knew was slowly slipping away.
    I slid out of bed to put on some coffee and retrieve the paper. Keith would be awake soon and looking for both. Next, I would help him into the shower. From the waist up, he still looked like the same sexy brainiac I fell in love with – olive-skinned and naturally toned from his rowing club days. His rapidly deteriorating legs were always the cruellest reminder of what he’d lost. It wasn’t that he couldn’t walk anymore or fuck anymore. It was because he couldn’t walk or fuck