Arlo
Before she can properly register what’s happening, I hoist Ophelia over my shoulder, one arm braced around the back of her thighs.
She lets out a startled gasp, her fists landing against my back, frantic little hits that do more to irritate than injure.
They tickle, if anything.
“Put me down, you absolute brute!” she snaps, twisting in my hold like that’s ever worked for her.
I ignore her entirely, grabbing my luggage with my free hand and heading up the stairs.
At the top, I hesitate, glancing right and left until she mutters, resigned, “Left.”
I take her direction, nudging open the first door with my foot.
The moment I step inside, I know it’s hers. The air is laced with that unmistakable sweetness, strawberries, soft and warm, and it hits me straight in the gut.
I set my suitcase beside hers, then lower her carefully to the floor.
My hands linger a moment longer than they should, following the lines of her figure before I make myself let go.
She’s all smooth skin and lean curves, strong, feminine, and far too tempting for my own good.
I grit my teeth and take a step back, feigning indifference.
She exhales heavily, folding her arms across her chest, which only pushes her curves higher, drawing my eyes exactly where they shouldn’t go.
Bloody hell, she hasn’t the faintest idea what she does to me.
“You wanted to talk,” I say evenly, one brow raised, doing my best to look unaffected.
Her hair is plaited down her back, a single, neat braid that falls almost to her waist.
I have to fight the urge to reach for it, to wrap it once around my hand, draw her closer by that silken rope of hair, tilt her head back and taste the skin of her throat.
Her face is bare, with no trace of makeup, which somehow makes her beauty even more striking.
She’s dressed in something soft and impossibly inviting, shorts that show just enough of those long, toned legs to make me lose focus.
Everything about her looks warm, touchable, dangerous.
“Yeah,” she says, glaring up at me, her tone clipped. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“It’s a free country,” I reply with a shrug. “I can go wherever I damn well please.”
“I wasn’t talking about the country,” she fires back. “I meant this house.”
“Ah,” I murmur, stepping closer. Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t move away. I reach up, brushing a loose strand of hair that’s fallen from her braid behind her ear. “Simple,” I say, my voice low. “You’re here.”
Her breath catches for a moment. “I thought you despised me,” she says quietly.
Something in my chest twists, and I hate it, every damn bit of it. I try to ignore the pull, so instead I force a cruel smirk, reminding both her and myself exactly where we stand. Because truth is, I’m the one who keeps fucking it up.
“That hasn’t changed Ophelia, and it never will, you’d better remember that. Just because I stuff you full of my cock, doesn’t make it love. I need to fuck, you spread your legs and make it convenient. You’re just something to use when I need to forget what you ruined.”
Hurt flashes across her face, and that same pressure tightens in my chest again, sharper this time.
What the hell is that? I don’t like it.
I grit my teeth because I don’t regret hurting her.
She deserves it.
Every bit of it.
I keep repeating the words in my head, over and over, until they finally start to sound real, until I almost believe them.
My hand is still on her cheek. She knocks it away, and I let it drop to my side.
“Get out of my room.”
“How can I, when I’ve decided it’s mine now too?”
She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, and maybe I have.
“I’m not sharing a room with you,” she snaps.
“Good thing you don’t get a say in this,” I say flatly.
Something shifts in the air, the hurt in her eyes hardens into defiance.
She looks ready to throw me out, perhaps even leave a mark or two if I don’t move.
So I step in again, near enough to feel her breath tremble between us.
I need her to yield, to lose herself in my touch as she always does, thoroughly responsive, without even meaning to be.
My hand settles at her throat, tightening just enough for her to feel the pressure.
“There are no other free rooms,” I say, my voice low. “And before I share a bed with those bastards, I’d sooner sleep in the snow.”
“Not a bad idea,” she grits out, her cheeks flushed with anger.
Her eyes are glassy, like she’s holding back tears.
Because you hurt her.
The conscience I swore I didn’t have whispers.
“Let go,” I breath.
A single tear traces her cheek, and I don’t look away.
I lean in and catch it with my tongue, as my hand remains at her throat.
“I love your pain, ma lune.”
She flinches at the nickname, one hand lifting to her temple as though the sound itself wounds her.
I loathe the sight of it, that ache I can’t seem to stomach. I want to strip the pain from her and bear it myself.
A ridiculous sentiment, for someone I’m meant to despise.
“You’re confusing me far too much,” she says, her voice trembling. “You despise me, you wound me with every word, and yet you never truly leave.”
“Why can’t you just stay away from me?” she whispers.
“I don’t know.” The admission grates through my teeth before I pull her in, my lips crashing against hers.
My tongue finds hers, and she parts for me. The moment she does, I groan, she even tastes like strawberries.
“I fucking missed you,” I murmur between kisses.
She breathes, “I didn’t.”
I smirk against her mouth. “Such a liar, Ophelia. Always a liar.”
Each kiss deepens as I walk her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed. She falls onto it, breathless.
In one stride, I’m between her legs, sliding her shorts down with a rough pull. Her panties are white, pure, delicate.
Just like her.
They don’t last long. The fabric tears easily beneath my hands.
“They were my favourite,” she moans.
“I’ll buy you more,” I rasp, and lower my head.
The second my mouth meets her centre, every rational thought disappears.
Weeks without touching her, weeks of anger, tension, and wanting, and now I can’t stop.
I taste her like a man starved, tongue tracing every part of her until she’s trembling beneath me.
When I circle her clit and draw it between my lips, her breath catches. I suck harder, just to hear it again.
Every sound she makes reminds me exactly how long I’ve been starving for her.
“Letting me eat you out like the slut I know you are,” I growl against her. “You’d let anyone touch this pussy, but bad luck for you, I won’t ever let another soul near it.”
She grips my hair and yanks my face away, hard enough to make me wince.
Her voice is quiet and it pierces through me. “Don’t ever call me a slut again.”
There’s hurt in her tone, but beneath it… power.
Her eyes darken.
“Make me come,” she says evenly, “And stop talking nonsense. Between us, you are plainly the obsessed one, you’ve proved it time and again. If you keep this up, I swear you’ll never touch me again.”
I find myself staring, momentarily robbed of words. Because, damn it, my little moon has never dared speak to me that way.
And still, absurdly, there’s a swell of pride tightening in my chest.
And I do exactly what she commands.
I drop my head between her thighs again, tongue finding her clit. I lick and suck until her body arches off the bed, until she’s trembling, until her fingers dig into my hair again, but this time, she’s the one in control.
My fingers slide inside her, curling as I fuck her with them, worshipping the power she just claimed back.
I feel her tighten around my fingers as I move faster, drawing another strangled sound from her throat.
When I close my mouth over her clit, she breaks, shattering with a cry that echoes through the room.
Her body trembles beneath me, slick heat coating my fingers, my lips. I drag my tongue over her one last time before lifting my head, a faint smirk curving my mouth.
She’s watching me, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright, pulse still racing.
And then she parts those plush lips and ruins me.
“Good boy,” she exhales, so softly I almost think I imagined it.
“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath.
I’m not into this.
I don’t give up control.
But watching Ophelia take it, just this once, does something to me.
Next time, though, it’s mine again.
Next time, she’ll be beneath me, gasping my name, coming only when I allow it.