Page 89 of Ice Cold Hearts
He grips my hips and jerks me up and down his dick at a punishing pace. Every stroke has him hitting my G-spot. My fingernails dig into his back as he thrusts into me. I cry out his name as waves of pleasure wash over me. Oliver bends his head and sucks my nipple into his mouth.
“Fuck,” I sigh, “just like that. Don’t stop.”
I bite his shoulder as another orgasm rips through my body. He slows his pace as my body shudders around him.
“I’m close, Kitten,” he groans.
“So, how do you want me?” I ask, dropping a brief kiss on his lips.
“I want you bent over with your hands pressed to the shower glass. I want to see the water from the shower dance across your back as I take you from behind. I want to play with your clit and feel you shudder against me. Will you do that for me, Kitten?”
“I would do anything for you.”
As soon as my feet hit the shower tile, I’m turning away from him. My breath catches in my throat when Oliver shoves me forward. Automatically, my hands come up to catch myself and they hit the glass with an audible slap. The contrast between the cold glass on my palms and the hot water hitting my back sends a pleasant shiver down my spine.
He slides into me slowly and buries himself completely in me before withdrawing almost completely. These slow, teasing strokes make my back arch and my legs shake. Right as I start to worry about my knees going weak, Oliver grips my hip with one hand, supporting me. His other hand finds my clit. My breaths become shaky as he matches the speed of his teasing fingers with the way he’s fucking me.
Except it’s not fucking, is it?
Yes, he’s playing with me like a cat with a mouse, but there’s an undeniable undercurrent of tenderness to it. He’s taking his time with me because he sees me as someone he’s confident is never going to leave him, sees this as something permanent.
This isn’t fucking anymore. It’s making love.
When we come, it’s together with each other’s name on our lips.
Once we’ve dried off, Oliver pulls me in close.
“Today has been an absolute whirlwind of a day, but I need you to know that I meant what I said earlier.” He takes a shaky breath. “I’m yours forever. Marriage or no marriage, more kids or just Audrey, moving you in here someday or finding a brand-new place for our family of five. I don’t care as long as I get to be with you and make you happy.”
“But what if you learn something about me that makes you hate me?” I ask so softly I’m nearly inaudible.
“Emily, there is nothing you could have done or ever can do that would ever make me hate you,” he says earnestly. “Now, let’s get you to bed.”
He scoops me into his arms, and I press myself hard against his chest, hoping it will muffle the sound of my heart shattering as he carries me back to the bedroom.
29
EMILY
My self-imposed two-week deadline has come and gone with nothing to show for it. Today marks exactly one month after I resolved to tell them the truth, and yet here I sit with the secret still festering like a septic infection inside me.
Four weeks. I've had four weeks to come clean. Four weeks is plenty of time to tell a hard truth. That's thirty days, seven hundred thirty hours, or forty-three-thousand, eight hundred minutes, and not once during that time was I able to muster a single moment of bravery.
I don't know what's wrong with me. Every morning, I woke up determined to tell them. I planned out every miniscule detail from the precise time and location to every word I planned to use. At this point, I could recite the speech by heart, but the only person who’s heard it is my reflection in the mirror. Everything is fine until the moment comes where I actually have to tell them. I’m all confidence and poise until I try to actually bring it up, and then I melt into a puddle of nerves and do anything and everything I can to avoid having to tell them.
All I've been doing lately is avoiding. Avoiding the increasingly feral media, avoiding my mother, and avoiding the truth. The only thing going for me right now is that the press still hasn’t found where I live.
I never thought having too much student debt to qualify for a mortgage would have an upside, but here we are. It had felt pathetic when my parents let me move into one of their rental properties. I’d had this grand plan of paying off my debt while still living at home and saving up to buy something, but Audrey had changed all that. I was determined to give her stability. She deserved a mom who had her shit together and wasn’t still living with her own parents, so I started looking for places to rent.
When my parents found out, they’d insisted I take the townhouse they owned down the street. They were just going to give it to me, but I insisted on renting it until I could afford to buy it from them. I needed to feel some semblance of independence, even if it was false. Did they allow me to pay market-value rent? No. Did it soothe my pride to pay them something? Embarrassingly, yes.
Even though it was a blow to my ego at the time, having no publicly accessible paperwork tying me to this address has been a blessing. Between that and Hank’s driving skills, I’ve been able to maintain privacy at my home. Well, privacy from the press, anyway.
My mother, unfortunately, has decided I’ve had quite enough privacy. So instead of getting to watch my men play their away game on TV or taking advantage of my Audrey-free time with a long soak in the tub, I’m here sitting at her kitchen table. I sigh and trace the rim of my coffee cup with my finger.
“Maybe we should check in on Dad and Audrey,” I suggest.
She sighs deeply. “They only left five minutes ago. I’m sure they’re fine”