Chapter 11 Aisling #2
My heart flutters as he lowers his face toward mine, his voice quiet but lethal.
“You want to talk about using people? You knew no one would touch you if they knew your last name. So you went looking for someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions, someone you could pin the blame on if things didn’t go your way. ”
I scoff, but I’m too breathless to make it convincing. “Like I was some criminal mastermind. I was barely eighteen. I had no clue what I was getting myself into.”
His hand slams against the wall beside my head, making me jump. “Stop pretending you were some innocent fawn who wandered into the woods and got mauled.”
The suggestion that I would lie about what really happened just to punish Raf or protect my reputation cuts deeper each time he hurls the accusation my way.
He can’t fathom just how deeply those three nights impacted my life, how irrevocably they changed my future, how brutally his rejection shaped who I’ve become.
And his words set loose an explosion of emotion inside me, an anger that only this infuriating man can trigger.
I don’t think before my hand is lashing out of its own accord.
The sound cracks through the air like a gunshot. His head jerks sideways, unbruised cheek reddening instantly from where my palm connected with his skin. Then my stomach drops as I realize what I just did—who I just hit.
Raf’s fingers flex, and for one fleeting second, I think he might hit me back. It’s not unusual for men in our world to get violent with their women.
From what I’ve heard, Raf’s no stranger to the sight, growing up with Augusta Chiaroscuro as a father.
And I almost want him to do it.
I want him to give me an excuse to hate him more than I already do, to prove that he’s just as irredeemable as the man who raised him.
I silently dare him to do his worst and see what happens.
When he doesn’t, white-hot fury obliterates my rational mind.
With a high-pitched growl of frustration, I go to slap him a second time, and Raf snatches my wrist mid-swing, then he’s pinning my hands above my head, his body aligning with mine, forcing me back against the wall so I’m trapped, immobilized between him and the solid surface.
He’s not hurting me, not even squeezing hard. Just stopping me, keeping me from lashing out again.
His breath brushes my face—furious, ragged, and hot. “The next time you slap me won’t come without a consequence,” he growls.
My heart hammers painfully against my ribs, and I can’t tell if I’m terrified or aroused—which only pisses me off more. “What are you going to do?” I spit. “Toss me aside again?”
His eyes flash. “I should.”
“Then do it,” I hiss, all that hurt and rejection coursing like venom through my veins.
We’re too close.
Too tense.
Too angry.
And it feels like the very air between us will catch fire, stoked to the point of combustion by our ragged, whiskey-rich breaths.
Raf’s eyes burn into me with scorching intensity that sends a violent shiver down my spine, and I stare defiantly back.
Then his gaze drips, unleashing butterflies in my stomach as his lips find mine, hungry and punishing and relentless.
And I don’t push him away.
I kiss him back like I’m furious he ever existed.
There’s nothing soft or romantic about it—it’s bruised lips and demanding tongues and five years’ worth of unresolved hurt exploding between us like an atom bomb.
I hate how effortlessly he can turn me on, how quickly he ignites my soul, how intensely he awakens that dark desire hidden deep inside me.
His hand fists in my hair, and when I bite his lip, he groans into my mouth.
Oh, God, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed him. And it kills me to admit just how much.
But when he breaks the kiss, I’m breathless and wrecked, aching with the loss of him.
He keeps his forehead pressed to mine, eyes closed like he’s fighting something bigger than both of us.
I freeze, unable to make the next move, though my body screams for more—for all of him.
“This is a mistake,” he mutters, gutting me in an instant.
I laugh—a broken, drunk, too-honest sound that’s dangerously close to a sob. “Everything about us is a mistake.”
He doesn’t deny it.
He doesn’t let go, either, and I don’t pull away.
Then he lifts his face, our eyes clashing, and the fire inside his gaze turns my blood molten.
No doubt, we’re far from okay.
This argument hasn’t fixed any of the ugly scars between us. If anything, it’s reopened old wounds.
But that won’t stop the inferno we’ve started.
Every inch of me craves his touch, like a flame craves oxygen.
And I can feel it in the way his fingers tighten around my wrists.
Whatever reason he has for holding back, it’s not good enough.
His composure is slipping.
He’s losing control.
And despite my inner turmoil, I want him to.
I can see the moment his resolve cracks.
And the next instant, he’s on me again.
Raf’s lips claim mine a second time, and suddenly, we’re clawing at each other’s clothes—desperate to remove the barriers between us.
My hands drop to his belt as his fingers gather the layers of my dress, hiking the fabric up around my hips so he can find my panties.
Our lips remain locked, our tongues tangled in a fight to the death as he tears through the lacy fabric of my undies, shredding them and tossing the ruined lingerie aside.
Then my hands are at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling them open as he shoves his pants and boxer briefs down around his ankles.
I barely get his shirt open, exposing the rippling expanse of his muscular abdomen before he’s grabbing my thighs and hiking them up around his waist.
His chest slams me back against the wall, pinning me in place.
A gasp rushes past my lips, and I fling my arms around his neck as I feel his silken tip brush my slick slit.
I’m shocked to find just how wet I am as he presses between my folds.
The observation doesn’t seem to escape Raf either as he unleashes a tortured groan.
Then he’s lining up with my throbbing entrance, and with one punishing jerk, he shoves his considerable length inside me.
It’s dangerously reminiscent of our first time together—the shocking size of him ripping through me as he claims my body in one deep, relentless thrust.
Only this time, the pleasure that rises up to meet the pain nearly swallows me whole. I cry out as my muscles clench around him, every inch of me begging for more, even as my nerve endings scream.
And this time, Raf doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t slow down or give me time to acclimate. Instead, he pounds inside me, furious and without restraint.
A low, throaty growl rumbles from him, raising goosebumps across my skin, and I cling to him desperately, my fingernails digging into the quality fabric of his suit jacket as I ride out the brutal euphoria.
“You’re still so damn tight,” he rasps, his voice laced with disbelief. “Tell me, focosa, was it that challenging to find a cock that could compare to mine?”
Bitter resentment threatens to dampen the intensity of my pleasure—because, while he’s no doubt had sex with plenty of women since our time together, for me, there was only him.
And that seems to come as a surprise to Raf. He thinks that just because I gave myself to him, I would open my legs for anyone else.
It’s insulting, and the presumption of his comment makes me want to draw blood, so I bite down savagely at his full lower lip until I taste copper.
Raf hisses, his head jerking back, and I respond with a wicked grin as his cock stiffens even more inside me.
“Stop talking and fuck me,” I command, combing my fingers into his dark locks, mussing them as I bring his lips forcefully back to mine.