Leather & Lark (Ruinous Love, #2)

by Brynne Weaver

“I cannot bear to hear about the way some other guy fucked my wife. Or the way she might have fucked him. Please. Not right now.”

“Anyone gives you trouble, just say you’re married to the chick who likes to go commando and digs ass play. Bye.”

“I want to dedicate this to someone in the audience,” Lark says as her eyes find mine. She smiles, and things I thought I’d never feel, never let myself feel, rise from the darkness. “It’s called ‘Ruinous Love.’”

I’ve never wanted more with a woman than to satisfy cravings. Nothing deeper than superficial need. But when I look at Lark, a woman who is so brave, so fierce, so beautifully complex, the only thing I crave is her. I feel just like the man in the story she told me that day in her craft room, like I’m falling from a cliff with nothing but a rope around my waist, hoping to capture something elusive. It’s an insatiable need for the one thing I never wanted, an inescapable obsession for the one woman I thought I’d never have.

I’ve been cold for a long, long time Dreaming of flames in the night I’ve been living a dark and delicate lie Oh what a sweet, strange, dangerous surprise to find All the lingering glances that feel like heat beneath my skin, the teasing jokes, the way she smiles when I give in and play along—I’d convinced myself they were just ephemeral moments. Products of familiarity. It’s the first time I’ve really let myself believe that I might be wrong. Your touch, hot coals Your scent, like smoke Your eyes burn holes, looking back Sparks crack so loud Light falls on your mouth Your hands reach out, holding a match As if to ask “Baby, would you burn down the world for me? Cause I’d burn it down for you.” Ruinous love’s all I know how to do I’m not scared of damnation, I’m just new to this desire I do believe the best things come out of the fire I do, I do, I do

Ashes out the window Moonbeams catching dust Lay me down, baby, don’t let me rest too much The end of life as we know it is a beautiful view Here I am, looking at you, you, you

It aches. Feckin’ burns in my veins. That’s my wife. And she’s singing to me. Holding my eyes the whole song. Reaching right into my chest and tearing back the layers until I’m sure she can see my soul.

I do believe the best things come out of the fire I do, I do, I do You’ve been forgiven, got my permission to carry on sinning You’ve been forgiven, got my permission to carry on sinning …

I never wanted to be in love, afraid of the decimating power of its loss. So I buried it. Starved it. Tried my best to keep it out. But Lark has blasted through every defense, a supernova in my life. And now as she sings about pain and longing and the fire that I now know burns us both, I can’t fathom my world without her. The on...

When I deliver five hits to the minus button, the look Lark gives me is desperate. She’s about to toss that cello on the floor. I would give my right arm to see her stride off that stage and drop to her knees at my feet. I want her begging for my cock, to feel the fluttering desperation of her fingers as she fumbles with my belt to free my erection. It strains against my zipper in a painful demand as I picture her stripping me down. I’m desperate to sink into her, to feel how tightly her cunt can grip my cock as she takes me deep into her pussy. I need to see my cum dripping down her thighs so everyone here will know. She is my wife. Mine.

I press the plus symbol more times than I bother to count. Lark’s brow furrows and her mouth drops open on a moan no one can hear. But I can feel her break apart. The swell of music. The notes of longing. The way she watches me, pleading, desperate, taking everything and wanting more. She needs me. To touch her. To want her. To fuck her. This is not enough. When I’m sure she’s come, I lower the strength of the vibration before I press the power button. The song ends, the audience clapping and cheering as Lark smiles for me, sweat misting her brow in the bright lights. She sets the cello and bow on the stand. And by the time she’s looked up, I’ve disappeared from view.

I don’t catch sight of his dark hair or his tattooed skin or that fucking smirk. I don’t know why, or how, or when it happened, but I need his teasing, cocky smile. Just like I need that soulful look in his eyes when he desperately wants to share but can’t bear to. Just like I need his growls and grumbles and the zombie grumpiness he can’t shake until he’s had his first coffee. But what I don’t need, what I can’t bear, is him disappearing. Was the vibrator thing too much? Did I cross a line? I thought he would find it sexy. But maybe …

“I was pacing in the dressing room, duchess. I was waiting for you so I could give you the keys to drive us home and then fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

“I did test it. In front of an audience of what, three hundred—” “Five hundred.” “—five hundred people. My wife. On stage. Having an orgasm. In front of five hundred feckin’ people.”

“Does it bother me?” he says, returning to my question. “To see you on that stage and know I’m the one making you come and yet I can’t touch you?” Lachlan edges closer. He leans forward to cage me between his arms as he grips the counter, but he’s careful not to touch me. “Yes, it feckin’ bothers me, duchess. It bothers me very feckin’ much. In the best and worst of ways.”

“Show me how soaked those goddamned panties are from coming on that stage in front of all those people. Show me how desperate you are to be fucked.”

“Good, because any one of those assholes that watched you on that stage could walk in here and I don’t give a fuck. I won’t stop until you scream my fucking name so they know exactly whose whore you are.”

“Red means …?” “Stop.” “Orange means?” “Slow down.” “Green means?” “Fuck me and fill me with your cum.”

“The first time I fuck my wife is not going to be in the bathroom of some bar. So if you want to be filled, you’d better use your imagination and come with what I give you.”

I’m disheveled. Desperate. Imperfect. But Lachlan looks at me in the mirror as though he sees through every tarnished layer, every broken mask. It’s the thought of going home with this man who always searches for the real woman beneath it all that propels me into action.

I press Lachlan’s hand over my clit. I grind my hips. I beg for him to tighten his grip over my throat. And then I come in blinding stars as Lachlan’s name tumbles from my lips, over and over, a chant that doesn’t stop until he’s wrung every moment of pleasure from my body. It washes through me but leaves a hum of need behind. It’s not enough. It won’t be until I feel his skin against mine and the weight of his body and the planes of muscle beneath my palms.

“Are you jealous?” “Fuck off.” “You are jealous.” Lachlan’s deep sigh cools the beads of sweat on my neck. “Let’s get out of here so I can prove you have no reason to be.”

“Now let’s get out of here. I meant what I said earlier about you driving us home so I can fuck you until you can’t walk.”

“What a wonderful tool music is to escape from darkness. Don’t you agree? Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the earth. Break forth into joyous song and sing praises.”

I’m dying to run my fingers across her skin. To taste her. To sink inside her. To feel the weight of her body over mine as she rides my cock and grips me tight. But I’m determined to savor her. Even if it’s torture the whole way home.

“So,” she says as she takes a left at the light when it would be faster to take a right, “when you said you were going to fuck me until I couldn’t walk tomorrow, what exactly do you have in mind?” My molars clamp shut so tightly they might break. “Like … are there toys involved, or is this strictly a marathon situation?” I press my head against the headrest. “Do you have a mood board? Pinterest?” I turn slowly to level her with a menacing glare. “Are we talking cold baths here? Should I stop for ice? I can pull into Power Pump. Irony and ice, it’s a double win.”

“You like that, don’t you? You want me filling your throat. You want to swallow every drop of cum like my good fucking whore. Don’t worry, you will. And then you’re going to beg me for more, won’t you?” I chuckle as her lips part and the sweet scent of her breath floods my senses. She nods. “That’s what I thought.”

“What are you?” “Your whore.” “Then get down on your hands and knees.”

“You’re not my wife,” I say, and there’s a flash of panic and hurt in her eyes. “You’re just mine. Now crawl.” Relief flickers in Lark’s face. One hand and one knee after the other, Lark crawls toward me. Her eyes never stray from my face. When she stops at my feet, she doesn’t touch me. Instead, she waits for my next command. There’s not a single thing in this world that’s more intoxicating than seeing her kneel before me but knowing that she’s still the one in control. It’s so clear in her willing gaze, the way she folds her hands in her lap and pushes her breasts together against the leather straps, encouraging our little game. She wants to be ordered. To be used. To be filled and denied and degraded. To be rewarded when she’s ready. She’s in control. And I will give her anything she wants and more.

“You remember the traffic lights?” I ask, and Lark nods. “Good. Tap my leg twice for orange. Three times for stop. Otherwise, you’ll swallow every fucking inch I give you, understand?”

“My feckin’ catastrophe,” he says as his thumb coasts across my cheek. “You fucking destroyed me. And now I can’t imagine being anything but the man that I am with you.”

“You’re brave as hell. But you’re my person, Lark. I can’t do this without you.”

“You made this vow to save me. My brother. Your best friend. But I want you to choose the future you want, Lark. You can dissolve this marriage. Or we can do things another way. Maybe we start over and pretend we’d first met at Rowan’s place. Or we can stay married, have the honeymoon we talked about. You said it would be Indonesia, if this were real.”

“This is real to me, Lark. I know I promised I wouldn’t let you go, but I was wrong. Because this decision is more important than me keeping my word. And for what it’s worth, I hope you choose me, in whatever way that needs to be. I’m asking you to stay with me. But I want you to choose what’s right for you.”