Chapter 8
EVA
Immediately, Alex slides one hand behind my neck and grips my waist with the other. I taste the bitter trace of wine on his tongue. His mouth is hot, hungry. Not the slightest hint of hesitation.
He walks me backward as we kiss. My back hits the wall. His hands move with purpose, exploring the curves of my body. His lips are fierce. His tongue is aggressive in the most erotic way.
When he breaks the kiss for a moment, our gazes lock. A resigned understanding passes between us—an acknowledgment of weakness.
We both know we must resist this longing, because it’s a wildfire that would leave only scorched earth behind. And yet, we’re powerless to stop it.
The desire blazing in his eyes makes me crave him so badly I nearly yowl.
I’m a cat in heat, shameless and insatiable.
Fisting his shirt, I yank him back to me.
As our lips meet again, a rush of desire floods my senses, drowning out everything else.
We kiss and kiss. I cling to him, lost in the intensity, panting and wanting.
I break the kiss long enough to draw a breath. Seconds later, his mouth is on mine again. And I let go. I kiss him back with years of stifled desire thrumming under my skin. I can’t lie to myself anymore. I’ve wanted this man for a long time.
His fingers tangle in my hair.
I flinch instinctively, bracing for pain. Geoffroy used to do the same, always as a foretaste of domination.
But Alex doesn’t pull. Nor does he tighten his grip. He just keeps kissing me like a man possessed.
My shoulders relax as I realize there won’t be pain. That isn’t his intention. My hair’s a mess from all the tossing and turning, and his fingers are just caught in the knots. That’s all it is. He was never going to yank. No control play, no games. Just impatient hands in wild hair.
I’m not with Geoffroy now. Alex may look like his older half brother, but he isn’t Geoffroy.
We kiss again. His hands roam my back, my neck, my jawline, and my cheeks. They slip under the lapels of my bathrobe and caress my shoulders. My fingers curl into his shirt to feel his skin, his hard muscles.
His breath mingles with mine, creating a heady mix of desire and need. Every nerve in my body is on fire. I yearn for more of him, more of what he’s doing to me.
And then he pushes my wrists against the wall behind me. The restraint isn’t rough—just firm enough to hold them there.
The kiss dies on my lips. My mind races, plunging into a panicked frenzy.
Is this still passion? Normal male assertiveness?
Or is it a sick, twisted need for total control?
Alex leans back, eyes scanning mine. “What’s wrong?”
I look at his hands pinning mine above my head. They’re not tight. Not bruising. But I can’t stop that old, deep-rooted shiver scraping up my spine.
“Do you…” I rack my brain for the right words. “Do you enjoy hurting people?”
He blinks. “Is this about Rohinn again? Because if it is, I already told you—”
“No,” I interrupt. “Not about the duchy. Not the inheritance.”
He falls silent, watching me.
“I mean during sex,” I finally say.
A deep crease appears between his eyebrows. His grip loosens entirely.
He steps back, giving me space. “You’re asking if I’m into S and M?”
I nod once.
“No,” he says firmly.
My arousal pushes me to believe him, but I’ve been burned too badly by Geoffroy. “Are you certain you’re not into… deviant proclivities?” I ask.
“Not unless making sure my partner comes more than once counts as deviant.”
There’s no hesitation in his voice. No dark flicker in his eyes. He’s just confused and perhaps a little offended, but not defensive.
And so, I make a choice—the same one I made when I left my parents’ house, the same one I made when I married a man I barely knew.
Only this time, I know what I’m risking.
But I kiss him anyway. This kiss is gentler than the one before. It’s as though he’s trying to reassure me I can trust him and lower my guard.
In the middle of that sweet, gentle kiss, I relax again. My fingers find their way back to his shirt. They slip beneath the fabric to explore the chiseled planes and hard lines of his stomach.
“If we were hoping to get any rest tonight,” I whisper, “we’re going about it the wrong way.”
His breath is ragged. “I’d rather not sleep.”
The shirt comes off. His skin is warm under my palms. I relish the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. He leans in. His lips trace a tantalizing path down my neck, skim my collarbone, and tease the edge of my bathrobe.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my skin.
In response, I push the robe off my shoulders.
He seems thrilled at my silent invitation. His mouth ventures lower. My hands find purchase in his hair, tugging gently, then not so gently, when he presses me into the wall with his hips.
I can feel all of him, and it’s exhilarating.
He’s no longer gentle, and I’m completely fine with it.
I match him, rough for rough. Even in my happiest early years with Geoffroy I don’t recall being this wild, this ravenous.
All my senses are heightened, every inhibition stripped away.
If Alex holds a standard of femininity he expects me to live up to, he hasn’t shared it with me.
And, frankly, I wouldn’t care if he had.
I moan. I grope. I bite softly. I feast my eyes on the muscles of his arms flexing as he moves against me. My own hands run over his defined chest and abs. The intense focus of his gaze on my breasts makes my lower belly clench with need.
I don’t dare slide a hand down to his cock, but boy, I want to!
The combined scent of our skin fills my senses. There’s a tang of sweat mixed with the sweet musk of desire. We rub against each other, stroke, knead, press, lick… It’s pure, unrestrained want, fueled by all the pent-up tension from the past week… the past years.
My bathrobe is already half open. My arms are free, the sleeves abandoned to give Alex unrestricted access to my breasts. I trace the lines of his face, his jawline, fingers trembling with the thrill of his perfection.
The belt around my waist is the only thing keeping the fabric from surrendering entirely.
The robe didn’t bother me until moments ago.
But now, I resent the barrier it forms between his hands and my skin.
It feels too thick, too heavy. It clings to my hips, obscuring the curve of my ass, when I crave his touch there, the press of his palms against bare skin…
With deliberate slowness, I find the knot of the belt and tug it loose. The robe slips down my body in a rustle of terry cloth, leaving me utterly exposed.
Alex steps back.
His breath hitches. The hunger in his eyes makes my knees weak. His chest rises and falls with uneven breaths. His pupils darken until they are pools of pure black. The air between us crackles with unspoken desire.
He closes the distance, and my hands find his belt. I fumble with the buckle. It resists as if mocking my urgency, but I don’t relent. I tease the leather free, my determination unwavering, until the belt slides out with a soft hiss.
The sound feels like victory.
And surrender.
And a promise of something I’ll savor—only to regret tomorrow.