Chapter 36
Chapter
Thirty-Six
The wood cracks, but the door doesn’t fully break; there’s no way Lachlan put his full force behind the blow.
I have seen him fight off báshounds. I have watched him train future warriors. I have benefited—greatly and often—from his single-minded focus in the bedroom.
But I have never seen him lose his composure like this.
It probably shouldn’t be making me so hot.
I slide a wary glance toward Aowen’s bedchamber. There’s not a scrap of light beneath her door. Hopefully she’s asleep already.
Lachlan hasn’t moved, is still holding his fist against the wood, breathing heavily through clenched teeth.
I know he would never hurt me. That he’d rather choke down broken glass than cause me any pain. At least, not more than I’ve agreed to.
So it is not fear that slows my steps as I approach him. Or, more accurately, not fear of him. It’s fear for him. That he might be upset or ashamed of me seeing him this way. Furious. Riotous. Straining at the tight threads of control he’s woven around his world.
I want to touch him, but I’m afraid I might spook him. So instead, I press my cheek against the doorframe, trying to catch his eye. His gaze bores into the depression, as if he could fix it by concentrating hard enough on the damage.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I whisper.
“Certainly not.”
The anger serrating his voice is likely for Desmond, not me. Maybe even a bit for Lachlan himself.
“Do you want to talk about something else?”
He turns, his sapphire eyes sparkling with unshed tears. They run down my body, then back up again. Stop on my mouth.
“I don’t want to talk at all.”
“That’s fine, we can—”
His hands are in my hair and he’s pushing me against the wall.
Every emotion that was missing from Desmond’s kiss, from Torvil’s almost-kiss, can be found here in the slide of Lachlan’s lips across mine.
In the clash of our teeth. In the soft heat of his tongue.
I shudder out his favorite whimper, and his hand slides down to my ass, his fingers digging in so hard he nearly rips my gown.
I yelp, and he stiffens. He tears his mouth from mine and tries to pull away, but I don’t let him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair. “I can’t … We shouldn’t do this right now. I’m too … I don’t want to hurt you.”
I bring my hand to his cheek. “You would never.”
He looks wretched, fear and desire fighting for dominance. “You have no idea what I’m capable of. The things my anger might urge me to do to your body. I cannot be gentle right now.”
“Who says I want you to be? I can handle you, Lachlan. I’m not afraid.”
“Charlotte,” he groans. “You don’t understand. I—”
“You’re doing an awful lot of talking for someone who said he didn’t want to talk.” I wrap my hand around the back of his neck. It’s coated with sweat, evidence of how hard he’s fighting his urges. I whisper into his ear the same offer he made. “Use me.”
He presses his forehead against mine, heated skin to heated skin, behind which thrums the diamrhán, our connection.
I trust you, I say through it.
More than anyone. More than is wise.
I do not need to voice that part. He knows.
Which is probably why he throws me over his shoulder, pushes the cracked door open, and tosses me onto his bed.
He wastes no time climbing on top of me, his mouth fused to mine. My entire jaw is corralled by one of his massive hands as the other deftly pulls up my skirt and strokes the fabric between my legs.
“Your panties are very wet,” he whispers against my mouth, and I can tell by the curve of his lips that this discovery has pleased him. And I am pleased to discover that Aowen was right about that word. “You like me angry and out of control? You want me to be rough with you? To be mean?”
His hand dips beneath the waistband, followed by a light graze along my slit and a small pinch to my clit. I am putty.
“Please,” I beg. It’s all I can manage.
He coasts down my body, pulling down my sleeves and biting the swells of my breasts above my bodice. It hurts, but also feels so incredible that I let slip a loud moan.
He tsks. “Quiet. You don’t want Aowen to hear you. Burst through that door to see her brother’s future queen being fucked raw by his knight.”
He pushes off me, and I almost cry out in protest. I can be quiet. Or at least try. He didn’t have to stop. He—
He slides me to the edge of the bed and rips my panties off. “Open your mouth.”
I instantly obey, liquid heat pulsing between my thighs as he stuffs them into my mouth. I taste my own arousal. This is filthy. And so degrading.
I’m in ecstasy.
“Scream into those all you like. If you don’t, I’m not doing my job properly.” He grazes his lips across my temple, my kind friend checking in. “You remember our signal, yes? If at any moment you want me to stop, just tap me twice with your heels or leg.”
I nod furiously, wondering why he didn’t tell me to use my hands.
I find out a moment later when he stands me up, turns me around, and tears my gown straight down the back. He undoes my stays with practiced hands, then strips off my shift and ties my wrists together with the laces.
I raise a brow, breasts pushed together and on display for him. I am fully naked aside from my thigh-high silk stockings and lace garters.
“Stay like that for a moment,” he breathes, reverent. “I want to look at you.”
He doesn’t say what we’re both thinking. Which is that this could be the very last time he’s able to look at me like this. We’ll part tomorrow—him to Tír na Strelle with Desmond and me to Tír na Dubh to win my final suitor—and will not see each other again until Mabon for the Wild Hunt.
And that’s the best-case scenario.
But maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe none of it ever mattered. Because tonight, we are not Lachlan and Charlotte, the silly fools who can’t keep their hands off each other.
Tonight, we are master and plaything.
“Such a soft, beautiful little pet.” He steps closer, runs his knuckles down the side of my breast, across my ribs, over the curve of my waist. “Trussed up for me to use however I please.”
Anticipation fizzes through my veins. I want him to stop looking and start touching. I am so slick, he could enter me right now and encounter no resistance.
But of course, he doesn’t. He likes to draw things out. Likes to torture me, in the best way. We both know the longer he makes me wait, the more spectacular the grand finale will be.
He spins me around again, then lifts my hands toward the bedpost, curling my fingers around it. He pulls my waist back, forcing me to bend forward. “Don’t let go, no matter what happens back here.”
My nipples tighten as I nod, angling my cheek into the crook of my elbow so I can watch what he does to me. At first, it’s nothing more than spreading my legs a little wider. Cool air flows over my exposed sex, and I do feel like a pet. One who would like to be stroked.
He slowly unbuttons his jacket, then strips it off his broad shoulders and folds it over the back of a chair.
Neat, as always. He grasps the back of his shirt collar and hauls it over his head, placing it atop his jacket.
He removes his boots, then unlaces his trousers, but does not pull them down completely.
They sit low on his hips, exposing dark hair and those two delicious slices of muscle.
He is so goddamn beautiful. A work of art.
The intricate script of his tattoos, the shiny piercing through his nipple, the ears, the fangs, the strength and power in his supernatural body.
And he’s about to use it all on me. I choke back a hysterical laugh because when was the last time I felt such pure, incandescent joy?
Not once has he looked away during his display. He likes to watch my eyes glaze with hunger, likes the way my skin flushes at the sight of him.
He approaches from behind, the soft fabric of his trousers kissing my ass cheeks. “I’m going to hurt you. Then I’m going to fuck you. Okay?”
I don’t even have the time to nod before his hand smacks across my ass. The noise that escapes me is half scream, half whimper, muffled by the wet fabric in my mouth.
He fists my hair, pulling my head back, and growls in my ear, “I don’t fucking care if you’re okay with it.
Do you know why?” His nose buries in the soft curls at my nape.
“Because your body is mine tonight.” He curls an arm beneath my waist, feather-light circles on my clit, and the gentle touch combined with the lingering sting of his blow has me shuddering, clinging to the post to stay upright. “And I take care of what’s mine.”
He removes his hand from between my legs and I whine, not at all placated by the gentle kisses he trails down my spine.
I sway my ass against him, begging for more touch, begging him to make me come.
Even though I know that if he obeyed, the climax would be bright and sharp and over far too quickly. Unsatisfying.
So, of course, he doesn’t.
Instead, he spanks me again. Hard enough that my elbows bend and I have to brace my hands against the post to keep from slamming the crown of my head into it.
“I told you to hold onto that,” he snarls before flattening his palm across my other ass cheek.
My flesh ripples beneath the blow, and god, I should not enjoy how cruel he’s being.
How demanding and possessive. It’s such a dramatic contrast to how he is with me everywhere else—soft, attentive, deferent.
I am growing too fond of both sides. It’s a problem.
But one for another day.
I let my mind drift away as he continues his thrashing. Blow after blow after blow. My flesh is scalding; I cannot imagine how pink it must be.
Tears gather in the corners of my eyes, and saliva pools around the panties in my mouth. Every time he glances from my ass to my face, sees the mess he’s making of me, the bulge in his trousers grows. I cannot wait to feel him inside me. I wonder where he’ll put it fir—
Smack.