Chapter 17 Madison #2
Relief washes over his features, and it reassures me. After how calm he was with a gun in his face, this is the right kind of response, at least. “It’s on my phone, which is in my pocket.”
Instantly suspicious again, I glance up at his hands in the cuffs. “Fine, but I’m not giving it to you. I’ll drive.”
“Fair enough.”
I shift back far enough on his lap that I can reach the top of his pocket in his jeans. I curl my fingers inside, and his stomach tenses.
“The pocket of my jacket,” he clarifies with a grin so amused that it reveals his dimple.
I heave a sigh, roll my eyes and dismount, hip creaking in protest as I climb off his lap.
I find his phone in his jacket draped over the arm of my couch, weighing down the leather on one side, and stare down at the screen as I walk back into the bedroom.
It doesn’t wake with motion, and I scowl.
I’d kind of been hoping to find out what his lock screen was.
Is he a blue background kind of guy? I bet it’s a photo of, like, a galaxy taken by the Hubble telescope or something. That seems sufficiently nerdy.
“What’s your passco—”
I stop dead, seeing him sitting on the edge of my bed with a cocky grin, handcuffs dangling from his left arm—one cuff hanging open uselessly.
I gasp. What the fuck? How did he…? This giant piece of shit! Was he out of the cuffs the whole time? I know I locked them—I heard the click!
That’s what I get for buying my interrogation tools from The Pleasure Chest.
“All these toy restraints have a release lever in case you lose the key,” he explains in a low voice, eyes drifting down my body as he divests himself of the other cuff and lays the pair neatly next to him on the bed. His expression turns predatory as he stands, filling the room with his presence.
The power dynamic between us shifts, and my heart leaps into my throat—I have officially lost control of the situation. He’s free. He’s on his feet. And he’s all the fuck riled up.
I feel myself physically gulp. All at once, the sheer stupidity of what I’ve just done comes crashing around my head. I handcuffed an assassin to my bed. I threatened him, tormented and teased him. And he just told me that my name is on his kill list. Fuck!
I glance down at the gun in my hand. The gun that’s only as good as my ability to bluff because it doesn’t have any bullets.
He follows my line of sight. “You know, you really shouldn’t point a gun at someone unless you intend to use it, love,” he tsks, voice lowering dangerously. “And you can’t use it if it’s not loaded.”
Double fuck!
With a little squawk of fear, I chuck his phone at him, turn on my heel and sprint for the door.
I thought I’d buy myself time—that he’d go after his device—but it clatters on the ground and with a curse, he gives chase.
His heavy footfalls thump after me as I stretch my hand towards the exit, blood pounding in my ears.
I have just enough of a head start… I can make it…
Just as my hand closes around the knob, the letters inked onto the back of his knuckles appear in my line of sight, slamming the door closed again as his body knocks into mine with the force of his momentum. A grunt of pain kicks out of me, taking all the air in my lungs with it. Fuck, he’s fast.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he snarls.
He’s so close I can feel every hard, hot inch of him pressed against my back, boxing me in.
I can feel his breath against my ear and shoulder.
I can smell that soapy, minty, bitter musk of him.
My left wrist—the one holding the gun—is in his hand, and my right arm is stuck between my body and the wood of the door.
“I’m trying to get the fuck away from you! Obviously!” I hiss back, matching his energy. I squirm against him, making a noise of frustration when he’s as unmovable as a goddamn brick wall.
“And your plan was to dash out into the hallway, mostly naked? You think I’d let anyone out there see that?”
The bite in his voice isn’t anger, I realize. It’s pure, raw jealousy. He’s not mad I held him at gunpoint; he’s coveting the sight of my nudity. He doesn’t want to hurt me… he just wants me. The thought literally steals my breath.
He reaches for the gun in my hand, plucks it from my grip and places it on the arm of the couch. “Now… where were we?”
He shifts his hips against mine, pressing all that rock-hardness into the softest part of me; I whimper as he grinds himself so close to and yet so far from my hot, swollen core. My whole body lights up at the friction, like someone lit a sparkler under my skin.
“You were trying to convince me that you’re not a threat,” I retort.
“I’m not,” he fires back. “I’m here to protect you.”
“What, like a bodyguard?” I snort, then wiggle my ass against him to make a point. “Well, your methods are a bit literal for my taste, but effective, I suppose. My body feels very guarded right now.”
With a chuckle, his head drops, and I feel a light brush of his lips against my temple.
“Just one of the many things I plan to do to your body.” He leans down to breathe the next words right by my ear, lifting the small hairs and making me shiver.
Especially when I feel the weight of his hand at the base of my neck, like he’s holding me in place so I listen.
“I’m going to claim and worship every inch of you until you’re dripping and writhing. I’m going to make you come until you beg me to stop. By the time I’m done, there won’t be any question of who you belong to.”
His words are like a punch to my uterus, and I make a sound I don’t recognize, sharp and full of longing.
The inherent power dynamic in this position and the way he’s so easily subduing me is doing something to my body.
I’m lost to anything but the overstimulated, prickly feeling of arousal so intense it hurts.
I feel his dick moving against my ass, like it’s suddenly got a mind of its own. Our delicate flesh pounds a concert of our mutual need. And fuck do I need more.
“Big words from a guy who hasn’t even made me come once,” I rasp, hoping to taunt him into putting his money where his dirty, dirty mouth is.
He spins me, jerking my body, and I try to resist, but my limbs feel boneless.
He grabs my free hand—the one that had just started reaching for a better hold on him—and it joins the other arm stretched over my head.
I thought people were kidding when they said a guy could hold both their wrists in one hand, but that’s exactly what he does.
He pins both against the unyielding, cold door.
Then, I feel his fingers curl around the front of my neck, holding me still with my head tilted up. We’re so close now that our rapid breathing becomes an exchange of air.
“Is that what you want? Tell me—use your words.” I can hear the amusement and longing in his voice.
“Yes,” I demand, surprised that it doesn’t sound strained or muffled. He’s not applying pressure to my windpipe, just right over my pulse points, slowing the blood flow to my brain.
“Ask nicely.”
I tug against him, testing his hold. “Just kiss me already, nerd.”
He squeezes, and my vision explodes in tiny white pinprick lights, making me whimper. He tuts. “Nicer than that. Try again.”
“Kiss me, SpyderMan.”
His smile is all darkness as he shakes his head slowly. “One more try. You know what I want to hear.”
I do. I know exactly what he wants to hear. “Sir,” I whisper, unwilling to broadcast my own submission any louder.
There’s a second where I’m not sure if I’m imagining his mouth on mine or if it’s actually happening.
Then I feel the vibration of his moan. His lips are hard, like the rest of him, demanding that I give in, demanding that I open for him.
When I do, his tongue sweeps inside, and I can taste so many things at once—the salty sourness of his saliva, the faintly minty taste of his tongue.
His stubble rasps against the sensitive skin around my mouth.
I drown in the sensation and taste and smell, burning with the need to be closer. His hand sweeps down the lengthened side of my body, stopping at the lace cups of my bra to slide his fingers underneath.
When he breaks the kiss, I whine at the loss. I don’t care why he’s stopping; I just know that I want him to keep going. I jerk my hips, tilting my pelvis towards him, and make a needy noise.
His smile is knowing, triumphant, and oh, so dark. He pulls up the center of the bralette until both my breasts tumble out, the air cool on the overheated, delicate skin of my nipples. He pauses a moment to stare in a way that makes me squirm, then his eyes flick back up at me.
Hooking his finger into the middle of the bralette, he tugs it all the way up to my lips. “Open.” My jaw automatically drops for him, and he pushes the material past my teeth. “Hold this. If you let go, I’ll stop.”
I bite down when I feel the fabric against my tongue. Now, I’m holding my bra out of his way so he can grab one of my breasts—big as his hands are, it’s far from big enough to circle all the way around the thickest part of my tit—and muffling myself when he squeezes and I cry out.
He dips his head and takes a swollen, hard nipple into his mouth, and my eyes roll back. A fresh wave of arousal crashes over me, and I moan, feeling strangely freed by the gag I’m voluntarily holding in my teeth.
His tongue swirls around the tip, and his teeth scrape against it. I feel like I’m spinning. “Harder,” I plead, but it’s not the sound that comes out through the lace and satin in my mouth.
If he understands what I want, he ignores it, and sucks gently. Then, he moves to the other breast, leaving one nipple taut and pebbling in the cold air. His fingertips roll the sensitive bud as his mouth takes the other, repeating the pattern of smooth tongue, scraping teeth, cold air.