69 Payback

**Date = 1 July**
**Place = San Francisco (Damion’s house)**

**POV - Aria**

***WARNING – Sex scene!!!***

The dishes clink in the sink, hot water steaming over my hands, thunder grumbling outside like an old demon with a toothache.

I scrub harder than necessary, suds splashing up my arms, because it is better than thinking.

The back door slammed shut twenty minutes ago. Jackson and Axel — ghosts in the rain. Out into the storm and into whatever dangerous plan Jackson refused to explain in full sentences.

River is dozing, tucked under blankets and breathing slowly, but not nearly asleep enough to make me relax.

Still, the house is quiet now. Just the storm. The water. The buzz of worry deep under my ribs. Leaving me alone with another problem. One, I’m not sure I want to face right now … or ever.

One, I don’t hear sneaking up.

He is always quieter than I expect a big man like him to be — all those sharp cargoes and louder-than-life grins don’t line up with the way he moves like a shadow. He appears behind me, leans against the cupboard with one arm above his head like he’s posing for some ad campaign.

“So,” he says. His voice is low, a little spunky, and a whole lot suggestive, although I know that last part is all my own imagination. I feel the heat rushing through my veins. I can’t help it, the man has a voice that brings to mind slow, steamy sex.

But on that note, I must add that I’m not the same girl as before. I’ve grown.

In a week? S-u-r-e. “Don’t even start.”

“I haven’t said anything.” Voice a little higher now. Flirty.

“You said ‘so’. That’s you starting.”

There’s a moment of silent tension.

“You wash dishes really sexy.”

That darn voice. It makes me remember everything we did in vivid technicolor — each time he burrowed into me until I couldn’t recall my own name. The feel of him, hot and thick inside me. How he can make me cum using only his eyes, or his mouth, or his hands.

Crap.

I begin to sweat, and my heart rate doubles. And if I’m being totally honest, there are some other even more base reactions going on, too. But I firmly ignore them all and scrub another bowl.

Lightning veins the sky above the ocean, white cracks against bruise-colored clouds. Thunder follows with a slow, heavy growl — beautiful in an eerie, dark way.

I snort. “Go away.”

“I’m flirting.” I turn around to face him, drying my soapy hands on my skirt.

“I know. It’s tragic.” What’s really tragic is that I can’t forget the feeling of him inside me. It’s permanently etched into my brain. Forever.

He snickers, his eyes heat, and combines with what is some self-deprecating humor.

Great. Now he’s remembering too. Shit.

But what totally red flags my bull is that while I’m agonizing with hard nipples and hungry parts, he’s entertained.

I want to strangle him. I really do. But then another thought jumps to mind.

Payback.

All I need to do is get him UN-entertained and flustered. I need him aroused.

Wanting. Begging. Oh, begging will be so satisfying.

Because when he admits that he wants me out loud, I’m going to look him in the face, flat-out reject him, walk out the door, and maybe feel just the tiniest bit better.

It doesn’t make sense, but maybe it’s because I am hurt and I need him to be the same. Petty revenge on the man who broke my heart. The man who moved on mere minutes after I slammed his door shut.

I want him to want me. More than his next breath. Because he needs to suffer like I am suffering. Something needs to ease this pain in my chest. A pain that is suffocating me, as it just grows bigger and bigger, threatening to overcome me.

“Aria?” His voice is soft, almost longing.

Biting my lip, I grab all the courage I have inside and trace a finger up his arm to his shoulder, then down, over his abs, to play with the button of his pants.

The unflappable, cool, heartless robot goes still as pale steel. His eyes stare at my hand with crackling intensity, his expression a combination of frustration, irritation, and helpless intrigue.

I’m gratified to see an absolute lack of humor now.

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.

The bulge straining the zipper of his cargo says it all.

Triumph.

Not that I’m a vengeful person, but the man not only broke my heart, but also shattered my confidence. He literally moved on as soon as I crawled out of his bed. It was splattered all over the news.

Then he turns his eyes on me. It’s like being hit by a prismatic disco light.

My priorities are suddenly so out of whack that I don’t even know where to start. Hell, I barely remember how to breathe.

His eyes are blistering with desire. This is what I wanted. But now I’m not so sure what to do with it.

“You’re playing with fire, Batnip.” His voice is thick. I realize my heart might still be too fragile for this revenge game. I should get out of here. I should walk away … right now.

But my emotions are at war. One part wants to strangle him, another wants to fuck him, a small part wants to run, but the most important part feels safe, as if I belong.

I turn back towards the window. The storm cracks outside. A sheet of rain slams into the window hard enough to make me jump.

He slides his hands around my waist like a thief stealing heat. His chin brushes my shoulder, lips near my ear.

“You don’t have to stop,” he murmurs.

“And let these plates fester in filth?” A desperate attempt to get my bearings back.

“Their sacrifice would not be in vain.”

I laugh despite myself and try to elbow him. “You’re relentless.”

“I’m persuasive.” Yeah, that he is. But he’s also destructive. We stand like that for a while, me drinking in his smell and heat. It’s familiar.

“I wish you hadn’t hurt me,” I say softly after gathering my thoughts, “and that I didn’t have the urge to hurt you back.” I turn my head to look at him. A look of grief spreads all over his face. He lowers his eyes.

“I know it’s juvenile and childish, but it’s a fact. I want you to hurt.” When the silence swells so much it’s about to burst, I continue, “But at the same time, being close to you is the only place I feel safe right now.” I bite my lip and look back at the stormy gray ocean, burying my feelings. The seagulls River chased earlier are sitting on the rocks, feathers ruffled by the wind, trying to outbrave the storm.

I feel his need pressing against my back and resist the urge to let out a whole hysterical laugh. I think I want him more than he wants me.

He tugs me slightly from the sink, soapy water forgotten, and I let myself lean back against his chest for a moment longer than I should.

“I’m not sleeping with you tonight,” I lie.

“I don’t want to sleep.”

I turn in his arms, a dish towel still in my hand like a flag of surrender I haven’t raised yet.

“You’re impossible,” I moan.

“So I’ve been told.” I smack him with the towel.

He grins provocatively. It’s sexy. “That’s foreplay in some cultures.” I roll my eyes. Not sure how long I can resist.

We stand like that, a pause stretched tight between banter and something too real to laugh off.

I study his face — the way his mouth tilts just slightly to the left when he smiles, the line between his brows, he always says is from Jackson, but I know it’s from nightmares.

He is beautiful in the way hurricanes are beautiful. And just as dangerous.

I look at him for a long moment. The storm buzzes low against the windows, pressure shifting in the room.

“You know,” I gruff, “You and Jackson are more alike than you want to acknowledge.”

“Yeah.”

“You both joke when you’re scared,” I say.

His grin falters, then reappears, slower. He doesn’t reply. My resistance crumbles.

Then, without another word, I kiss him. Even though I know — he doesn’t love me. It’s just going to be a fuck. Cause that’s who he is … the consequential playboy of Hollywood. Going through vaginas like I go through toothpaste.

So the kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t anything that can be confused with comfort.

It is goodbye.

Enrique stills for a second before kissing me back, hands moving up my sides, anchoring me.

I feather my lips against the indentation in his neck, licking the soft skin, tasting him. He moans. His Adam’s Apple moves as he swallows. Hard.

“Sport …”

“Yes,” he feathers kisses down my neck. My brain shuts down.

“I … eh …” Oh hell, I’m stuttering. I let out a low laugh and try to push him away. “I want you. I do. But I still want to hurt you. Because you always hurt me … but that’s just who you are … and I know that … you’re a player and actually it’s not your fault … you never led me on … but still I need you to feel the same pain … it’s pitiful but … this is the last …”

He cups my face and kisses me … most likely to shut me up … and frickin hell, it’s working — here hauled up against the very sexy, very warm, very hard body of the man I love, I’m totally speechless.

There are a million and one reasons why this is a bad idea — my heart getting broken all over again, the main one. I must run. Now is the time to push him away, reject him, and go. Have my payback. Head held high.

“Fuck, girl,” he murmurs against my mouth, “I missed you so bad.” My heart flips, belly up. There’s gonna be no running. Not today.

In that moment, everything comes crashing down — my fear, my pain, my anxiety, my loneliness, my need — and it all points straight to what I already know.

I love Enrique Blackburn. I’ve known it for a while.

But I only realize just here and now exactly HOW much I love this man. That no matter what I do … or what he does … it will never change. Dammit.

It unsettles me, deep inside. I know this has to end.

BUT I need just this one last time. Call it a goodbye fuck. Then it’s over for good.

I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him again. Deeply. Hungrily. Seductively.

It wrenches a rough groan from the pit of his throat. He pins me to the cabinet as he kisses me. Kisses me like he’d never kissed me before. As if I am so much more than the woman he signed a contract with. A woman he merely pretended was his girlfriend.

He kisses me as if I MEAN something to him, and it splits my soul wide open.

Hope claws inside. I gasp for breath and give back to him what I’ve never given before — everything. My broken heart. My wanting body. My open soul.

He presses into me and slides his fingers into my hair, pulling, while tilting my head to a better fit for his continuous devouring.

Abruptly, he lifts his head and looks deep into my eyes. The contrast within his gaze shakes me … one dark and mysterious … the other warm and homely. Both now yearning and needy.

“What?” It’s a soft husky whisper. That’s all my vocal cords can manage right now.

“I just want to see if the feelings I’m feeling are duplicated in your eyes.” His gaze sweeps over my face and softens. “They are.” Yeah, I’m just as horny as he is, that’s a fact.

He lets out a low, feral growl before coming at me again, settling his mouth firmly over mine, his tongue forcing its way inside. I wriggle my fingers into his hair and clutch at him for support as his actions turn my knees to mush.

I’m a pathetic mess.

Yes. Bizarre as it seems, this man evokes every feeling in the book in me.

And more.

He can sex me up with one look, destroy me with another, give me hope, shatter my heart, make me love, make me hate … and that’s just the start of it.

The frustrating thing is that I never know what he’s feeling. But right now, I don’t care.

I’m heating with desire — my toes are curling, my skin is burning, my nipples have popped, and my core is in serious need of attention. All I care about right now is my accumulating need.

As if he reads my mind (not a surprise there), he slides his hands down my body over my ribs, then lower to my hips.

And back up again.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” his voice thick, “Beautiful.” He works open the small buttons of my red polka-dot blouse with steady fingers. How he’s so calm right now is a wonder. I’m a great big wet mess.

Murmuring something unintelligible, he slips his fingers under my white, lacy underwear and simultaneously scoops down both bra cups, liberating my tits into his grasp. With an oafish sound of hunger, he bends his head, nibbling one perked nipple, his palms kneading the full curve of my breasts.

“Sport.” We’re in the kitchen, I want to say. River can come in at any time, I want to say.

“Yeah.” He looks up, eyes burning bright and intense. Half my mind wanders off, and the other half goes looking for it. My jaw drops, and I try to find a single rational thought. I’ve got nothing. All I can do is stare at him with an open mouth and a blurred gaze like a knocked-out puffer fish.

I say nothing.

He tilts his head and grins — that stupid knee-flopping, panty-wetting, BEAST smirk of his.

“I know, baby.” His fingers crush the hem of my short, white, denim skirt, and he pulls it up. And up … until it’s bunched around my waist.

Grin still in place, he tilts his head to take me in … my white silk high-cut — probably drenched by now. My blouse, wide open. My tits, hanging out like overripe melons. And my nipples, perked as if they’re auditioning for a spotlight commercial. A wanting, horny mess.

He swallows, a little vein in his jaw beating fast.

“Fuck.” His voice vibrates through my lustful vagina, and it drools some more. His hands run beneath the silk, cupping my bare bottom in those big, warm palms, hauling me up onto the counter.

My control is frail. My body is hot. My pussy is wet. I wrap my legs around his hips like a needy prostitute. And I don’t even care.

“Mm.” I moan as he rocks those hips, prodding his sex right up against that already damp piece of silk covering my throbbing core.

“Please,” I manage with a lustful exhale of breath as he contracts his grip on my body and rocks again, his tongue playing with one lucky teat. Ecstasy rushes through me, pleasuring me to the very tips of my curling toes. I’m still wearing my white stilettos.

With tight fists, I cling to his shirt, breathing like an overheated dog, wondering if a person can combust from the inside out. ‘Cause I’m about to explode.

“Enrique …” It’s a lust-filled, dead plea. A pitiful solicitation. I’m frickin begging here.

“I know. I fucking know.” His breath feathers my wet nipple, sending goosebumps over my heated skin. He trails kisses up my neck and greedily massacres my mouth. I let him.

One hand presses lightly against the arch of my back — the other moves up one leg and slips underneath my underwear, finding me hot, wet, and wanting.

He dips into that heat, lifts his mouth, and lets out a strained groan. His eyes lower to look where he’s stroking me. He pumps his fingers deeper. My hips palpitate with titillated hunger.

“Holy fuck, baby!” He kisses his way from my shoulder to my ear, and sips my lobe into his warm mouth; his fingers doing everything right down there. “You’re so fucking wet.”

My muscles quiver, tighten, and I throw my head back. His lips move to a pushed-up breast, he covers my nipple, and sucks. Hard. Biting lightly with his teeth. That slightest hint of erotic pain sends a fiery shock wave to every nerve ending in my body. He scrapes his thumb down my slit, then pinches my clit, putting a little pressure on it.

“Fucking cows!” I cry out. He covers my mouth with his.

“Shush,” he mumbles hoarsely against my lips. “We don’t want to wake that kid.” His breathing is harsh and fast.

Unexpectantly, two fingers shove deep, and he swallows my scream into his mouth. Oscillating my hips, I’m on the edge. And I realize Jackson was truly right … I am a screamer.

“Cum for me, baby.” He plays me like a grand piano.

I do.

I cum so hard that a musical orgasm rips through my body, leaving my muscles puckering and quivering, and my ears humming.

He doesn’t let up. His tongue curls with mine, his fingers drive me insane as I cream over them. Once, twice, three times. But I need more.

My hands move to unbutton his pants, jerking down the zipper.

He licks, sucks, and kisses his way from my mouth, over my collarbone to my breasts, giving special care and respect to each rock-hard tit. I whimper, selfishly wanting more, which he readily provides. My need threatens to burst again.

I want him inside me.

My hands struggle with his cargoes, managing to get them down enough to free him. He’s big and hard and ready. My fingers cup his balls, and I squeeze lightly.

He sucks in some air through his teeth, his body going rigid. Moving my hand, my palm glides over his firm, impressive length, familiarizing myself with my most favorite part of him.

“You’re fucking killing me here.” He stares at me in unblinking intensity, radiating pure masculine sexuality, until I can’t stand it anymore.

“We need to move upstairs. The nearest condom is in the bedroom,” he hisses hoarsely.

“Forget it. I can’t get pregnant, remember.” One positive point in having one clotted-up cyst-filled ovary, I guess.

“I need you inside me,” my voice deep and raspy like a phone sex operator. He doesn’t think about it too long.

With a quick nick of his fingers, he slides my panties to the side, hissing at the view.

He pushes into me — big and thick and hard — his ravenous eyes holding mine captive.

It’s too intense. Too many feelings.

I bite his neck to dull the desperate, needy cry that rumbles from my lips. Then I suck that perfect skin. His hands are on my ass, holding me in place.

“Oh, fuck.” His breath jibes sharply in my ear. “Going bare feels so good. So fucking damn good, love.” Love?

My vagina squirms. Then blooms.

What (and I can’t stress this enough) the fuck. I must be hallucinating from the effects of the upcoming orgasm. An orgasmic high. That’s it. I’m zonked.

He pulls back and thrusts into me again, filling me to the brim. I’m stretched so tight that I can hardly stand it.

“Love … you …say,” I whimper incoherently for more.

“Huh?” He also sounds rather mindless. Forget it, my brain is not working right now. It seems neither is his.

“Again,” I mutter what I want, and he surges into me hard, going deep. He sets his open mouth on my shoulder, licking his way to the corner of my mouth. He plunges his tongue between my lips at the same time as his next thrust.

Gnawing my bottom lip as he moves inside me, he murmurs something into my mouth — his voice filled with guttural, hoarse emotion, and that is it for me.

I shatter from deep within — every bodily sensation possible in human anatomy crashes over me. He follows with raw muscular satisfaction, tearing from his throat, gripping the counter so intensely his knuckles turn white. He pumps again, exploding.

His body shudders, trembles, and goes taut. Muscles stiff as a little shiver discharges a last eruption. “Mm.”

He pushes his forehead against mine, eyes closed, breathing harshly. I sniff his scent like a drug. A viral, sharp male fragrance that opens with bergamot, veering into zingy geranium, underpinned by mandarin and sage with a sprig of aromatic lavender.

CK Eternity.

Oh, how I just love love LOVE the aroma of that highly-priced green liquid.

Love.

Was it my imagination … or did he say it? I can swear he did. Nah, it was just wishful thinking. But what if he did? Did he mean it? Oh, please let it be true.

He pulls back, zips up, and rebuttons. Then he stands there, monitoring me. I try to keep a neutral face, knowing by now that those sharp Blackburn eyes never miss a thing.

Slipping down the counter, I try to pull myself together — dragging my skirt down — recupping my boobs — and pulling my shirt.

All this while being watched like a heron looks at a toad. Like he’s seeing something he didn’t mean to find — something he can’t unsee.

And for the first time, I wonder if this thing between us is love, or just another way to bleed.

“You know, that was the first time I did it without a condom.” It was a first for me too. It felt different. Better. Extraordinary.

Then he smiles. One of those ever so sexy BEAST smirks. And I realize he’s not done with me.

Not even close.