39. Samson
SAMSON
I crush my lips to hers, pry them open, thrust my tongue into her hot mouth.
She kisses me back. She’s a good kisser, an active and willing kisser.
And this time…
Fuck…
This time, she knows. She knows what will happen. She knows I’ll take every bit of her, rip her apart, take what’s left of her soul and crush it beneath mine.
I break the kiss and inhale, sucking in air.
Then I toss her over my shoulder, walk down the hallway, away from that cursed door and that cursed lock.
She squeals, the sound trembling as if she’s unsure.
I don’t care. My blood is boiling. I take the stairs two at a time and carry her past the landing and down the hall to my room—the main bedroom, not the guest suite I had made up for her.
My space in my castle.
My haven.
My prison.
I let her down, but only so I can see her face. She wants this. I see it in the way she looks at me, lips parted, pupils blown so wide her silver eyes are almost black.
“Take a look,” I grit out. “See where you’ll become part of me.”
She swallows and looks around the room. At the dark pecan bed frame and dressers. At the silky black comforter and blood-red pillows.
The beast’s lair.
“You think you’re going to frighten me now?” she says.
“It doesn’t matter if I do.” I sear my gaze into her. “You’re here, and I’m going to do what I please with you.”
She laughs this time, as if she can’t believe I said it, like she can’t believe any of this is real. She lifts her chin, showing off the pink rash from my beard against her jaw.
She’s more brave than smart. Or vice versa. I’ve stopped being able to tell the difference and I don’t care anyway.
I step into her space, crowding her backward until her knees hit the bed. She sits, palms splayed on the mattress, her whole body crackling with a dare.
If I wanted her on her back, she’d already be there. But I want her upright, eyes level with mine. I want her awake for every second of this.
“I could make you beg,” I say, suppressing a cruel smile. I don’t disguise the hunger in my voice.
She blinks. “Maybe you could. But you won’t.”
The edge in her voice, all that boldness. I could snap it in half.
But she dares me with her mouth, with those soft, perfect lips, and I feel my control burning to shreds.
I stand between her knees and fist a hand in her hair, gripping it, forcing her head back enough that she can feel the threat humming from my skin to hers.
“Why won’t I?” I stare her down, daring her to answer wrong.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. “You like to watch, Samson. You want to see what I do.”
She’s right. It’s disgusting how right she is, how I want to see what she becomes for me. With me. Because of me.
I want to see her surrender, and I want her to know she does it willingly. I want her to never stop thinking about who she becomes in my hands.
My cock gives such a lurch that it hurts, but I don’t move to touch her. Not yet.
She sits there, head bent at the angle I hold it, her pulse thudding against my fingers where they bite into her scalp. Still defiant. Still hunting for the upper hand.
I want her to win, and I want her to shatter. I want to see her smile in victory and then sob in loss, both in the same night, both on the same lips.
She’s still wearing the leather coat I gave her, the sleeves covering her hands. She’s small like this, perched on my bed, dwarfed by oversized pillows and the heavy darkness of my room.
“Take it off,” I say, my voice gravelly.
She laughs a little, a choked sound. “You’re overbearing.”
She waits for me to move, to force her, but I don’t. I let go of her hair and step back.
She stands and quickly sheds the coat.
“The rest,” I grit out.
“You first this time.”
I let out a humorless chuckle. “You’re forgetting how this works, my beautiful little bitch. You’re mine in here. Mine, Delaney. And if you don’t undress for me right now, you’ll pay the price.”
She likes that, or she wants me to think she does. Her mouth twitches. Some last stitch of pride struggling to hold.
“You’ll have to make me.”
Lust, rage, desire—all of them pulse through me at the speed of light.
I grab her by the hips and haul her forward so she smacks against my chest. The contact is electric—her heat and mine, the friction of denim, that impossible scent of hers that drives me to the brink of insanity.
She touches my cheek, scrapes her fingernails over my jaw. Then, quick as a flash, she captures my lower lips with her teeth and bites down.
Hard.
Fuck…
She drops my lip and then meets my gaze. “You can’t hurt me, Samson. You can try, but you can’t.”
It’s a dare. Not a challenge, not a warning. She’s taunting me because she’s already counting on the ways I might hurt her.
Because she wants them.
I grab the neck of her T-shirt with both hands and pull the fabric apart so that it rips under my touch.
She doesn’t gasp.
She doesn’t back away.
When the shirt is in tatters on the floor, I get rid of her bra, let her tits fall against her chest. I squeeze them, twist the nipples, and then smack them both until they’re rosy.
Next I take her wrists and hold them in one hand, feeling how delicate her bones are under her flesh. The impulse to snap them is sharp. I could do it so easily.
Instead I pull her close, let go of her wrists, and then push her back down on the bed.
I remove her boots with more force than necessary and fling them across the room. One of them hits an old vase on a reading table. Glass shatters and falls to the floor.
I don’t give a shit about the noise. About the mess. About the delicate things that have somehow survived my ownership until tonight.
I slide my hands up her denim-clad calves and over her knees, finding the edge of her jeans. The denim is already ripped over one thigh. I tug at it and peel them off her, taking the black underwear with them.
She’s naked on my bed. The light from the chandelier overhead bathes her in gold and shadow.
I keep my pants on as long as I fucking want, because I like the way she looks at me with her legs open and her hands fisting the blankets and her lips parted like she might say something.
She doesn’t.
She’s breathing hard, and that pulse… The one in her neck…
Fuck.
I kneel on the edge of the bed, crowd her legs wider with my knees. I move like a fucking animal, yanking her wrists above her head, pinning them together with one hand. She struggles a little, but I’m past caring.
I press my mouth to her breast, biting the soft skin until she arches, and then I soothe it with my tongue. I work my way down her body, licking and biting, taking what I want.
She’s slick already, thighs wet, and when I run my fingers down and in, she shudders and moans.
“Look at you,” I say. “You’re mine, Delaney. All of you.”
Her eyes flutter, but she moans louder when I twist her wrists hard enough to bruise.
I don’t let go. I want her open, and I want her pinned, and I want her not just to surrender, but to need the surrender more than her next lungful of air.
I taste her—again, again, slow and then brutal and then slow so she doesn’t know whether to grind against my face or run from it.
She tries to break her hands free, but I have her held down, and I keep my eyes open, watching every second of her unraveling.
And when I look up at her from between her legs, meet that steely gaze…
She shatters.
I make her do it, I force her to do it, and she shakes so hard I feel it in my bones, an aftershock in my nerves.
I watch as she bites her lip so hard it bleeds.
Damn…
I move forward then, kiss her, taste her blood. Taste her surrender.
Then I rain kisses over her cheek to her ear.
“Are you ready, my beauty?” I rasp. “Are you ready for me to take that sweet little ass?”