2. Chapter Two #3
I don’t speak. I can’t.
I nod, breath catching in my throat, and place a trembling hand on his chest to steady myself as I slip one heel off, then the other.
Bare feet against marble. Cool floor. Hot skin.
The loss of height doesn’t make me smaller; it makes me his.
He palms my hip, fingers sliding over silk like it offends him. His touch is slow, too slow, mapping me like a man cataloging all the ways he’s going to destroy me.
His thumb grazes the underside of my breast. A circle. A press. Just enough to make my nipple harden through lace. Just enough to make me want to cry, the ache building between my thighs.
“You’re shaking,” he breathes against my neck, lips dragging over my pulse like he’s marking time.
“Nervous or needy?”
“Cold,” I lie, breathless.
He laughs. Quiet. Dark. Dangerous. It rolls over my skin like smoke.
“Liar.” He says.
And then he kisses me.
No build. No warning. Just crash. Like he’s claiming something that already belongs to him. His mouth devours mine, tongue slipping past my lips, arrogant and consuming. My hands claw into his shoulders, dragging him closer, needing more, needing everything.
The kiss doesn’t just end it’s ripped from me. He pulls back, chest heaving, eyes devouring me like he’s still starving.
“Your dress,” he rasps, voice gravel and fire. “Take it off.”
My heart jumps. But I don’t look away.
I want this.
I want him.
I slide the straps down my arms slowly, letting the silk fall, glide to the floor like it’s committing a sin.
I’m left in lace. Barely.
Sheer, black, high-cut, and useless against his stare. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t move. Just watches. Watches like he’s already inside me. Like he knows exactly how I’ll sound when I break.
“You’re even more beautiful without your pride,” he says, voice low, lips hovering over mine. His words stroke every exposed nerve I have. “Even better stripped of all that control.”
His knuckle trails along the edge of my bra, teasing the lace, tracing the top curve of my breast. Every movement is deliberate. Measured. Cruel.
“Tonight,” he breathes, mouth brushing mine, “I’m going to make you feel everything you’ve spent your whole life avoiding.”
My breath stutters. My thighs clench. I can’t stop it.
His thumb presses softly to my lower lip. “Tell me, Princesa…” His voice drops, guttural and possessive. “…have you ever been made to beg?"
"Never," I breathe, lifting my chin defiantly, even as my pulse races beneath his touch. "I've always gotten exactly what I wanted."
A dark, dangerous smile curves his lips. "Then tonight is going to hurt."
But standing here, lost in his darkness, wrapped in his promises, I already crave that pain.
Kane
She thinks she’s ready.
She’s not even close.
But I live for this lie, the defiance burning behind her eyes, the delicate lift of that stubborn chin, the erratic flutter of her pulse betraying every secret she’s desperate to keep hidden.
My thumb traces the sharp line of her jaw, forcing her gaze to mine. Her breath quickens, catching slightly, fragile, raw. Beautifully breakable.
Tonight isn’t about giving her what she wants. It’s about showing her exactly what she needs. The harder she fights, the sweeter she’ll break. And I plan on savoring every single second of her unraveling, watching her splinter, watching her beg for mercy she’ll hate herself for craving.
“Then let’s begin,” I murmur darkly, mouth slanting over hers, swallowing her pride with a kiss she wasn’t prepared for. Her lips part instinctively, a soft, helpless sound spilling free, slipping past her armor and slicing straight through every restraint I thought I had.
I pull back just enough to watch her eyes, wide, unfocused, flooded with lust and confusion, as my fingertips skim slowly down her curves, teasing soft, warm supple skin and lace, savoring each shiver, every involuntary twitch of her hips, every breathless whisper she tries and fails to suppress.
My mouth trails lower, lips grazing her throat, her collarbone, leaving tiny, temporary marks, shadows of the bruises I’ll brand her with by the end of tonight.
“First,” I rasp, lips brushing the swell of her breast through sheer lace, watching her lashes flutter, her chest rising sharply, “you’re going to beg.”
She shakes her head in instant denial, breath hitching violently. “I won't.”
I smile darkly against her skin, letting my tongue flick cruelly over the hardened peak beneath the lace. Her entire body jerks helplessly toward me despite her stubborn pride, and heat floods up her neck, shame and desire warring beneath flushed skin.
“You will,” I promise quietly, the threat dripping hot against her trembling body. “I fucking promise and then…” I pause just long enough for her eyes to snap open, dazed, pleading, pinned beneath mine, “…you’ll scream pretty for me.”
I sink to my knees.
Not out of reverence, but because I want her to feel every excruciating second of what I’m about to do.
My palms slide up the backs of her thighs, slow and deliberate, thumbs hooking beneath the waistband of her black lace panties. She jerks instinctively, trying to pull away. My grip tightens on her hips, locking her exactly where I want her.
“You move,” I warn, voice lethal, barely restrained. “And I stop.”
Her breath catches sharply. She freezes instantly.
Good girl.
I peel the lace down her hips inch by torturous inch, just enough to expose her, trapping her thighs together. She’s breathing harder now, uneven, desperate as cool air kisses her wet heat. She’s dripping already…she knows it. And I know it too.
And I haven’t even touched her yet.
I lean in, pressing my mouth just above the edge of her panties, letting my breath tease and taunt her overheated skin.
“You feel that?” I whisper darkly, voice smoothly coated poison. “That’s your body begging for everything your pride won’t let you say.”
Her fists tighten at her sides. She’s fighting it, fighting the urge to grab me, fighting the urge to surrender.
But she won’t fight long.
I tilt my head, dragging my nose slowly upward along the damp lace, a filthy tease against her throbbing center.
She moans, low, desperate, broken, and I savor that sound.
My tongue sweeps across the lace once, just once, and her thighs tremble so violently I have to grip them tighter to hold her upright.
“Still think you’re not going to beg?” I murmur, voice dripping a threat against her aching flesh.
Silence.
Stubborn.
So I stop.
Completely.
Go still and wait.
Let her burn, let the ache build, twisting tighter beneath her skin, consuming every thought until she breaks.
She’s trying hard to stay still. To keep her control.
It’s beautiful. And it’s useless.
I lean closer again, lips hovering just a breath away from her dripping center, no kissing, no licking, just pure, exquisite torture.
Then I look up.
She’s staring down at me, lips parted, chest rising and falling sharply, eyes glazed with need she refuses to admit.
“We can play this game all night,” I tell her softly, voice dark silk. “I’m patient when I want to be.”
Still no answer.
Fine.
I pull back slightly, and she sways forward, body betraying her pride before she can stop it.
I tap two fingers firmly against her thigh. “Uh-uh. You want something, Princesa? You ask for it.”
Her mouth presses into a tight, stubborn line.
That pride again. Beautiful, fragile, breakable.
I move in once more, teeth grazing the tender skin of her thigh.
“You’re dripping,” I whisper darkly, voice low and rough like smoke. “And I haven’t even started.”
She makes a strangled noise, breath catching sharply. But she doesn’t speak.
I lean back on my heels, letting silence stretch heavy and thick. Letting the absence of my touch drive her mad. She squirms slightly, thighs pressing together, chasing friction.
Trying to cheat.
I arch a brow, voice ice-cold.
“Spread them.”
She hesitates, defiance flashing briefly in her eyes before she complies, just enough, just barely.
My fingers trace slowly up the inside of her thigh, stopping just short of where she needs me most, so close she’s visibly shaking.
“You want my fingers, Camille?” I ask softly.
Silence again.
My grip tightens on her hip, firm enough to bruise. “I asked you a question,” I growl, voice dropping lower, harder. “Do you want my fucking fingers?”
Her head tips back slightly, throat exposed, pulse fluttering rapidly. And finally, finally, a whisper slips past her lips.
“Yes.”
I smile darkly, pressing my mouth just beside where her pulse throbs hardest, my voice rough with triumph.
“Not good enough. Beg me.”
She whimpers.
One second passes.
Two.
Then…
“…Please.”
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t give her a fucking inch.
She trembles, and I savor it.
“…Please…” she whispers again, softer, rougher. Need dripping from every breath.
Silence hangs thick.
Heavy.
Until…
“Please,” she finally gasps out, voice shaking. “Touch me…I need your mouth. Fuck, please…”
There it is.
That broken surrender.
I smile slowly against her thigh, lips brushing her skin.
Fucking music.
That’s exactly how it sounds.
I move.
Fast.
Dragging her down onto the floor, onto my tongue, like she’s exactly where she belongs.
Because she fucking is.