Page 19 of Fuse

Because of her, the wounds of my soul are healed too.

Through loving her, that soul now longs to do good things.

In fucking her, my body’s going to give that mission a damn good start.

“Get on the bed, Velvet,” I instruct, savoring every erotic syllable. “And make yourself very comfortable. This is going to be a hell of a ride.”

I watch as her breathing noticeably snags and her nipples pucker even harder. All the exquisite ways she honors me—as she turns and obeys me without hesitation—lend new inspiration for the letters of the new law I’m determined to detail for her right now.

I peel off my shirt, flip the bedspread up, and root beneath the mattress for a couple of seconds. There. Right where I’ve stowed them, ensuring they’re ready for the most perfect of special occasions.

Or maybe I just knew, even back then, that the woman was going to need exactly this lesson taught to her. In exactly this way. At exactly this time.

Or maybe I realized that I’d need this.

Yeah, right here. Especially right now.

To have this respite of something good. Something right. Something to latch me back to her again. To remind us both of the connection that keeps us bound in the face of insanity and solid in the center of loss. Of course, I had no idea that Angelique would show up in the middle of the memorial and inadvertently add another strange twist to the day.

Which makes this, right now, even more important.

The most important.

Screw everything we had to do this morning. Screw our full house of guests. Screw the lunatics who are still lurking somewhere out there and everything they did to fuck up my head before this—and likely after this.

Screw it all.

Just for this bubble of perfect passion—her perfect passion—screw it all.

“Both hands up to the headboard,” I instruct before opening my hand to expose the special contents that fit so well against my palm. “Grab the rail and don’t let go.”

Not that I intend to let her have a choice.

“What the—” Her croak of astonishment slices into the air as I secure the first clasp of the handcuffs around her left wrist and the rail. “Reece?” But she’s quickly spitting and snarling as I do the same thing to her right. “Wh-What the hell is this?”

I’m not ashamed about the arrogance in my smile or the kiss it turns into just before I respond, “Isn’t it obvious? This is H.”

“Oh, dear God.” She jerks at the bonds, a reaction to be expected, though as she realigns her gaze with mine, it’s with an openly perplexed frown. “These are made of…steel.” And with the clarification fires the full question in her eyes as well. Why did I pick steel and not simply a rope of electrons or a lasso of light? I have to admit, I haven’t been sure of the answer myself—until this very moment. Yes, in this place. Yes, in this time. Perhaps because of everything that’s already gone down today. Gazing at my woman, naked and bound to our bed by them, the answer’s as smooth and bright as her bared beauty.

I need this. I need this.

Sometimes, I’m a fucking genius and don’t even know it.

And sometimes, especially in moments when this goddess is waiting and panting like this beneath me, I completely know it.

“Because they’re real.” I enforce the point by sliding my thighs between hers and then spreading her out with my knees, relentlessly sliding and rolling my hips while roaming my hands over her fingers, her wrists, her knuckles, her palms.

At once, she bucks and lunges beneath me. Fuck, yes. A desperate growl rips from my throat in response. The contrasts strike my senses with visceral clarity. Flesh and steel. Leather and skin. Hard and soft. Tangible textures and raw sensations, not invisible pulses and lightning flashes. “They’re real, Emma,” I repeat, rocking harder against her. “Like us.” I need her to hear that. Hell, I need to hear it. To be sure of it. “They can’t be zapped away or erased with a keystroke.”

Without ceasing my undulations, I kiss her again. This time, it’s not a demand or a thrust. I draw out the contact, lingering and tasting and treasuring. Needing to cherish her with every part of me that’s still me. A man who has good days and bad days, dreams and desires, hopes and visions and aspirations. A man, not a machine.

“You’re not just the electricity in my blood,” I rasp, punctuating it with another gentle caress of a kiss. “You’re the light in my psyche, Emma.” I lift enough that she sees all the truth in my eyes and every shred of meaning in my spirit. “You’re the match to my soul. You, damn it. Only you.”

Her lips fall apart. They’re the color of strawberries from our kisses, but damn it, that only makes me crave her more. “And only you. Always and only for me.” She rolls her head and jerks up her chin, all but begging for more contact of our mouths. But I hold back, purposely denying her so I can linger here and remember her…

exactly…

like…