15. Adriana #2
I feel dizzy with how quickly things have shifted.
But something in me is drawn toward this idea, seduced by it.
The thought of having that much power over him, of releasing all of this hurt and anger and fear inside of me, taking it out on him while he takes out years of pent-up desire on me, both of us exorcising our demons together…
He won't let me go. But maybe… maybe this is a way we can set each other free.
"I want you to know that you have control. That you can stop me. That you're not helpless. Not with me. Never with me." He never stops looking at me as he says it, and I can feel the tension in every muscle of his body.
I stare at him, my mind racing, my heart pounding so hard I can barely breathe. This is insane. This is—
But God, I want it. I want to feel like I have control again.
I want to feel like I matter. Like my choices matter.
And maybe Lachlan is the only man who can give this to me. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he does understand, and this is his way of showing me.
And maybe I really am the only woman who can give him what he needs.
"What's the word?" My voice is barely a whisper.
"Anything you want." His hands slide down to my neck, his thumbs resting against my pulse. "Pick something you'll remember. Something that means something to you."
I think for a moment, my mind spinning. And then it comes to me.
"Someday." My voice cracks on the word. "That's what you said to me ten years ago. You said someday you'd come back for me."
His eyes close, and I can see the pain flash across his face. "Someday," he repeats. "That's your word. You say it, and I stop. I promise you, Adriana. No matter what."
I nod, and I can feel my whole body trembling. "Okay."
"Okay?" His eyes open, something dark and hungry in them that makes my stomach clench. "You're saying yes?"
"Yes." The word comes out breathless. "Yes. I want—I want to feel like I have control again. I want…" My voice shudders. "I want you."
His eyes widen, a groan tearing from his lips as if those three words have set him on fire, and his mouth crashes against mine.
The kiss is hard and demanding, almost brutal, and I gasp against his lips. His hands are in my hair, gripping tight, tilting my head back, and I can feel the desperation in him, the need, the ten years of wanting that he's been holding back.
I push against his chest, and he growls, his teeth catching my bottom lip. I shove harder, and he stumbles back a step, his eyes blazing.
"Fight me," he says, his voice rough. "Show me you're not afraid."
So I do.
I hit him, my fists connecting with his chest, and he lets me.
Lets me push and shove and scream at him, all the rage and fear and helplessness of the past ten years pouring out of me.
He grabs my hair again in his fist, dragging my mouth back to his, and I throw myself against him, a breathless moan escaping me as I feel his throbbing cock threatening to tear out of his pants, pressed against me.
Sobs spill from my lips and into his, and I kick at him, trying to wrench away.
He spins me, catching my wrists, and pins them above my head against the wall.
"You done?" His voice is low and dangerous.
My heartbeat picks up even faster, the danger and the look in his eyes terrifying me.
What if he doesn't stop? What if I say it, and he won't let me go?
But this is Lachlan. No matter what he's done, no matter what he's become, there's one thing I know he would never do to me.
If I say stop, he will. And that makes the terror feel almost cathartic. A way to work through the worst fears in my mind, the horrible scenarios that kept me awake in Gio's house, knowing I can stop it at any time.
"Fuck you." The words are a sob, and he smiles, dark and predatory.
"That's the plan."
He lifts me, tossing me over his shoulder, and I scream, kicking at his legs and pounding my fists against his back.
He growls, bringing one hand down sharply on my ass, the spank reverberating through my body and making me moan helplessly.
I feel the wetness gathering between my legs, heat suffusing my veins until I feel like I'm on fire, and even as I'm twisting and kicking against his hold, I want this so desperately it almost hurts.
He kicks open the door to his bedroom and carries me inside. The room is dark, lit only by the city lights streaming through the floor-to-ceiling window at one side of the room, and he drops me on the bed, his body covering mine before I can move.
"Say the word," he murmurs against my ear. "Say it, and I stop."
I don't say it. Instead, I arch up against him, my hands fisting in his shirt, and he groans, his hips grinding against mine.
He pulls back just long enough to yank his shirt over his head, and I gasp.
He's so fucking beautiful, chiseled like he's been carved out of stone, scars and tattoos covering most of his muscled chest and arms. And…
my eyes widen as I see the tattoo right over his heart, in curving script more delicate than any other tattoo on his body.
It's a tattoo of my name.
My heart seizes in my chest, and tears burn in my eyes. As delicate as it is, the tattoo was clearly done by someone without much skill in tattooing—the lines are slightly blown out and wobbly in places. But I could care less about that.
My name is tattooed on him. All these years, he's carried me with him, a constant reminder of what he left behind.
I can't stop staring at it, at him. But the fear is still there—the fear of trusting him, of believing this could be real… and the anger at how he went about it all is still there, too.
He sees where I'm looking, and his voice softens as he speaks.
"Your turn." His hands are on the hem of my shirt, and he pulls it up and over my head, tossing it aside.
His eyes rake over me, dark and hungry, and I can see the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands shake slightly as he reaches for the button of my jeans.
I grab his wrists, stopping him, and he looks up at me, his eyes questioning.
"I want to fight you," I whisper. "I want to feel like I'm not just—just giving in."
His smile is dark, dangerous. "Then fight me, baby. Take it all out on me."
I twist away from him, trying to scramble off the bed, but he catches my ankle and drags me back.
I kick at him, and he laughs, low and rough, pinning my legs with his body.
His hands are on my jeans now, yanking them down, and I'm fighting him, pushing at his shoulders, but he's so much stronger than me, and God, it feels good to struggle, to push back, to know that I could stop this if I wanted to.
But I don't want to.
My jeans hit the floor, and his hands are on my thighs, spreading them. I can feel the heat of his gaze on me, the way he's looking at me like he wants to devour me.
"You're so fucking beautiful." His voice is rough, reverence filling it as his hands slide over my skin. "I've dreamed about this, having you like this. Making you mine. You were all I ever thought of."
"I'm not yours." The words are a challenge, and he grins, dark and feral.
"Not yet."
He leans down, his mouth on my inner thigh, and I gasp, my hands fisting in the sheets. His teeth scrape against my skin where he left the marks before, and I arch up against him, desperate for more. He laughs darkly against my skin. "Patience."
"Fuck patience." My voice is shaking, and he looks up at me, his blue eyes blazing.
"Say the word if you want me to stop."
"I don't want you to stop." The words are a plea, and he groans, his hands gripping my hips.
"Good."
He yanks my panties to one side, his mouth descending on me, and I cry out, my back arching off the bed.
He's relentless, his tongue and teeth and lips driving me higher and higher, and I can feel the orgasm building, coiling tight in my belly.
My hands are in his hair, gripping tight, and he groans against me, the vibration sending shocks of pleasure through my body.
"Lachlan—" His name is a gasp, and he pulls back just enough to look up at me.
"Come for me," he says, his voice rough and commanding. "Let me taste you."
Then his mouth is on me again, lashing at my clit, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise.
I writhe under him, the desire to fight long gone in the absolute pleasure that's washing through me.
What I want now is to come, and as his tongue slides over me, fluttering and sending jolts of sensation through me again and again, I feel the knot of pleasure unfurl, crashing through my body as he sucks my clit between his lips.
The orgasm crashes over me, and I cry out his name, my body shaking, my hands fisting in his hair. He doesn't stop or let up, drawing it out until I'm sobbing and begging him to stop. Only then does he pull back, his mouth glistening and his eyes dark with satisfaction.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and then he moves up my body, his mouth on mine. I can taste myself on his lips.
I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle, and he helps me, shoving his pants and boxers down and kicking them off.
And then he's naked above me, and I can see all of him—the hard length of him, thick and flushed.
He's as thick as I remember, long and almost pressed to his belly; he's so stiff, and I reach for him, wrapping my hand around him. He groans, his hips jerking forward.
"Adriana—" My name is a warning. I stroke him, slow and deliberate, and he trembles, his hands braced on either side of my head. A sense of power washes over me, seeing this dangerous man shaking from the feeling of my hand wrapped around his cock.
"I want you inside me," I whisper breathlessly, and he closes his eyes, his jaw tight.
"Not yet."
"Why not?" I'm frustrated and aching, and it comes out as a needy whine. He opens his eyes, looking down at me with something dark and possessive.
"Because I want to tie you up first."
My breath catches. "What?"