The Pretend Boyfriend 2 (The Pretend Boyfriend #2)(15)
Author: Artemis Hunt

She can tell that his self-doubt is beginning to creep in once again.

She positions herself in front of him. “Brian, we have f**ked on that very couch. On that very carpet. Or have you forgotten? Why should I be afraid of you now?”

He turns away, his expression filled with a pain he’s trying to mask. And failing miserably.

“I’m tired,” he says. “I’m going to bed. Alone.”

“I’m coming.”

“I want to be alone, Sam.”

“No, you don’t.”

He straightens his tall, lean body, and a fraction of the Brian Morton she knows comes back to the proud carriage of his shoulders.

“I do. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, Sam, but don’t test me. Not now. Not today.” The determination in the line of his mouth is grim.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Get out,” he says with finality.

She winces. “No.”

“This is my house and I’m telling you to go. So go.”

He strides over to her and grabs her arm.

She shrugs off his grip, and he lets go, clenching his own fist as though he isn’t sure what he will do with it. Then he takes a step back. His entire body is trembling with something he can barely contain.

He says in a low voice, “Please, Samantha, leave before I do something both of us may regret.”

She wonders why she is standing her ground. Why is she so sure of him when he doesn’t seem to be as certain of himself? But her heart is beating fast and ponderously against her ribs, and all that is coursing through her now is her absolute conviction in this man – the man she loves.

Oh yes.

She knows what he has done for her in regards to Henry Moody, though he would never admit it. She knows all his faults. Everything that Cassie has mentioned is true. Brian can be self-absorbed, egoistical, snarky, vainglorious, irreverent, manipulative.

But he is also generous – in a way that he doesn’t want you to know he can be. And caring. And loving. And giving. And honest to the point of brutality, because he tells you what you need to hear . . . not what you want to hear. And everything else that he tries to hide under that veneer of sarcasm and f**k-them-all attitude.

Brian Morton is a complex man. So complex that she knows she hasn’t begun to scratch the tip of the iceberg. But she wants to. If he is willing to let her try.

And she is on to him now. She knows what he is like underneath all that barbed wire.

She says, “I know why you want me to leave. You’ve always been honest with me and I’ll be honest with you now. After what happened, you don’t quite trust yourself around me. Around anyone. You genuinely don’t remember what happened, but deep down inside you, you think you’re capable of doing things you have never done before. Especially during a blackout.”

Brian remains silent, even though he is still a tense wire in his two day old grimy clothes.

She continues, “So I’m going to tell you what you need to hear, not what you want to hear from me, you stubborn twat.”

She marvels that she can say all this with such a clear conscience.

She goes on, “I’m not afraid of you. I’m going to stay with you tonight whether you like it or not. And you’re going to talk to me. Really, really talk to me, not brush me off with one of your stupid remarks. We’re going to fix this together. I don’t know how, but we’re going to prove to everyone that you are still the person you thought you were. And I can’t help you if you keep shoving me out of the door, dammit!”

She seizes his face and kisses him roughly.

She feels him pulling away, putting up his hands to stop her, to push her from him. But she resists and clings to him like a rudder in a sea of immoralities.

His muscles slacken, as though he is too fatigued to fight her anymore.

They finally come up for air. He wears a look of defeat. The Adam’s apple in his throat moves like a running mouse. She has never seen Brian Morton like this before. She’s frightened for him, and yet determined.

He whispers, “I’m scared.”

“I know,” she whispers back. She strokes his face lovingly.

15

They lie in his bed together, naked. His bedroom is masculine, done in simple tones with mood lighting from cleverly designed alcoves in the ceiling. The bed is set upon a raised platform. Everything else is designer spartan and sleek. Like him.

She is kissing him with surety. Softly. Then passionately. Voracious mouths mingling. So certain that everything will be the same as it was again. So certain he wouldn’t hurt her.

Because he can hurt her. He knows that now. He’s a big, strong, athletic man. He can overpower her and whatever she does to combat him will be futile.

Only he doesn’t want to hurt her. He has been rough in sex before. But that was always because the woman wanted it that way. Some women desire the aggression and helpless abandon of being taken and claimed. He has read that somewhere before.

She is lying on top of him, and his erection is only semi-hard. He can’t get himself in the mood tonight, no matter what she does. And she’s tried plenty. She has tried playing with his ni**les – tweaking them and rubbing them in the way that she knows he likes. She has tried sucking them – five minutes on each, and then gently taking his penis into her mouth and pulling at it with all the strength she has in her cheeks.

She sucks him and sucks him, applying greater and greater pressure on his partially swollen cock. It stiffens for a while, but fails to maintain any form of harder turgidity. He breathes harshly through his mouth. His fingers dig into her hair and pulls at her tendrils, willing himself to concentrate so that he wouldn’t disappoint her.

But all he can think about is Delilah. Her red, red hair. The curl of her lips.

None of it in a good way.

And the missing time that has engulfed his memory.

It’s no use. He’s not going to maintain any semblance of an erection. At least, not one hard enough to penetrate anything.

After a while, he gently pushes Sam away.

“I don’t think I’m up for it tonight,” he confesses.

“That’s a first. It’s usually the opposite – me having to fend you off because we have already screwed four times that day and I was sore.”

He gives her a wry smile. “Am I really that bad?”

“Sometimes. For a man your age, your stamina is amazing, come to think of it.”

“If you’re trying to cheer me up, it’s not working. I’m doomed to be morose for all eternity and be baggage to my friends.” He’s trying to recover his old sarcasm, but even that is deflated tonight.