Chapter 44
Gen
Ican’t do this anymore.
I can’t sit here and pretend that wanting Anton isn’t consuming every last drop of energy.
I can’t keep punishing both of us when the attraction is utterly insane, and he’s brought me here, to his stunning retreat, and he’s been nothing but kind and sweet and attentive and respectful.
I can’t say no to him when he’s looking at me like that.
Like I alone have the power to put him out of his misery.
To quiet his demons through the simple act of letting him put his hands on me and slay me.
Above all, I can’t say no to him when he begs. Because Anton Wolff doesn’t beg.
So I don’t say no.
I say yes.
He stares at me. I don’t think he’s processing that I’ve changed my tune.
I nod.
I lean forward.
I put my hand over his and squeeze.
‘I said yes. Touch me.’
He rakes his dark eyes over my face. A slow grin spreads, triggering those dimples I love before his laughter lines swallow them up.
‘Touch me, what?’ His voice is low but no less demanding.
So this is how it’s going to be? Unbelievable. His humility didn’t last long. But I smile, because I fucking love it.
‘Touch me, please, Anton,’ I say.
His hand clenches under mine. I want it on me. ‘Where?’
‘Everywhere.’
He sucks in a sharp breath. ‘About fucking time.’
‘Yes,’ I agree.
‘Come here.’ He slaps the wooden surface of the table with his free hand.
Cédric cleared away the main course about half an hour ago, and all that remains on the table are our drinks and the remnants of a chocolate-dipped strawberry platter.
Anton explicitly dismissed him for the night, but I still feel a little exposed. I look back towards the house.
‘We won’t be disturbed,’ Anton says. ‘I promise. Come. Here.’
The final two words bear the strain of a man pushed to, or past, his limits, and they send a thrill dancing over my skin. I’ve held him off and held him off, and now I have no doubt I’ll be punished for that.
However strong my attraction is to him, however strong my feelings for him, there’s no doubt in my mind he’s a predator.
He’s still the Big Bad Wolff, and he wants me, and I have a feeling he’s about to rip me apart.
And fuck, I’m so ready to put myself in his hands.
I rise and round the corner of the table. Anton pushes his chair back to make room and stands. I stop in front of him, the edge of the table hitting the tops of my thighs below the full skirts of my dress.
He slowly gets to his feet. My flats are long abandoned under the table somewhere, and I have to crane my neck to look up at him.
He’s so close.
So still.
All I can hear is the hum of cicadas, and the breeze stirring the leaves in the trees, and the sounds of our breaths.
He wraps one warm hand around my neck.
The other goes around my waist, tugging me even closer.
‘Fucking finally,’ he grits out.
And he dips his face to mine.
The first touch of our lips is like being plugged in. It’s such a fucking relief to have his mouth on me. To have his face pressed against mine.
He doesn’t start slowly, or gently, or reverently. He’s way past that—we both are. Rather, his kiss is decisive and hungry and searching. He claims my lips and almost instantly forces them open with his tongue, so I taste wine and feel his ravenous, demanding probes.
It’s an angry kiss.
A why the fuck did you make me wait kiss.
A look how fucking good it is between us, you idiot kiss.
An I can’t believe you were trying to deny this kiss.
One hand has my neck in an immovable grip.
The other has slid south and is grabbing my arse through my dress as he holds me against his hard body.
I’m in freefall, my tongue sliding against his as it devours my mouth, my hands everywhere as I attempt to take in all the details I’ve obsessed over for so long.
God, his hair is luscious, and the forearm I drag my fingernails over is taut and toned, and the small of his back feels like somewhere my palm could live happily ever after. And as for his smell? It’s fucking crack. I breathe him in and a low noise of pleasure escapes my throat.
In response, he nudges me backwards so my arse is planted on the table and steps between my legs, his hand in my hair now, fisting it and tugging my head back before he pulls away.
I open my eyes and gaze up at him in a fog of lust. There’s triumph on his face, and stark desire, and I know him well enough to realise he’s battling with his self-control.
Because when a man’s appetites for sex and for control are both this substantial, and he’s on the precipice of getting what he wants, you bet there’s going to be some internal conflict.
He stares down at me, breathing heavily as he decides what to do with me. He could bend me over this table and be balls-deep inside me in about ten seconds flat, or he could drag me up to his bed and torment me for hours.
Who the fuck knows with this guy?
And that’s the fun.
Because, Lord knows, I’m fine with either option.