5. Willow
5
WILLOW
This time, his kiss is deep and punishing. A forbidden second kiss, my mind acknowledges, but it feels different, a first all its own. Intense and passionate. He’s claiming me. My arms slip up of their own accord and slide into his dark hair. It’s shockingly soft, and a total contrast to the rough of his stubble.
All my firsts.
It was rash to have agreed, but the moment he said it, I couldn’t imagine giving those firsts to anyone but Zane.
I tell myself that I had no choice. That’s sane. I had to agree because the tall, dark, handsome mafia boss who stole me away from a wedding I desperately wanted someone to save me from, and held me captive.
That’s the only reason.
He told me he loved me in a voice like honey and brandy and sin.
His erection is almost painful digging into my belly. He wants me. He picked me up, and chased me. For the first time in my life, to be chosen for myself, like a book from the shelf. Not for money or power, like the man I was supposed to marry this morning.
He runs his palms up my sides, groaning as I kiss him back with as much passion as he’s giving me. And in response, I’m fizzing. I’m alive with needs that have been unread pages of my story until now. Between my legs is hot and slick and aching. My nipples are jutting out, and as I press closer to Zane, they’re so sensitive.
He parts my knees with his, and I moan as his thigh rubs over my sex.
Oh god, I’ve never felt like this. I’m ready to explode.
He breaks our kiss, panting, his breath hot on my lips.
“Fuck, I didn’t mean to get so…” But then his mouth is on mine again, demanding and passionate, and his hands are roaming over my body. I cling onto him.
Would it be the same with any man? I have all the sexual experience of a tomato, but somehow, I don’t think so. This feels special.
“You’re writhing against me, Willow.” He scrapes my cheek as he shifts to kissing over the line of my jaw, then onto my neck, and my… I… My brain disintegrates when he kisses me there. “What do you want?”
I can’t say. I’m just a sugar-high, hormone jelly. I run my hands down his sides, a mewl of desire escaping me as I feel how different from me he is. Muscled, strong, and huge.
More, I want more, but I can’t ask. I shouldn’t.
“Willow,” he says roughly as I reach his waist.
He shifts backwards, and I take advantage, ignoring his warning and then oh… That’s his erection. We both gasp as my hand covers the top.
“What are you doing, little bunny?”
Even through the layers of fabric I can feel his heat, and how hard he is. And big . My head is spinning at how enormous his length is.
All my firsts. That will go inside me. I’d be stuffed with him, like eating too much and feeling ready to pop, but the sexual version of that.
“Oh no you don’t,” he snaps, and I realise I’ve been rubbing my hand over him. Before I can blink, he has grabbed my hands and yanked them back over my head, pinning them again with expert efficiency.
I should apologise or say something sexy, or attempt to use my actual brain, but I don’t. I’m on fire with sexual energy I didn’t know was in me. Maybe it wasn’t. Perhaps it’s Zane and the way he’s controlling me, firm and dominant, and kinda scary. And yet, gentle too.
“You are not going to seduce me into letting you go.” His tone is harsh and icy-blue eyes glare down at me, like a clear day in Antarctica.
I wasn’t trying to do that.
Probably I should have been. Would have been smart, but would have required my brain not to be mush.
I pull against his iron grip and inexplicably, that makes me even hotter, and I moan, rubbing myself against him.
His brows lower. “Tell me what you want.”
“No.” And it’s a no to telling him aloud, not to him touching me. I can’t say what I want, not least because I’m not sure I know. But I keep trying to get contact between us.
My eyes plead, and I squirm. I’m so achy and incomplete. I need to feel him.
His eyebrows lower into a scowl, and he stares at me.
“Do you need me to make you?”
I press my lips together.
Yes. I really want this, but I can’t. It’s stupid to ask.
“If you want me to stop, just say, ‘Zane, stop’.” He says that like the phrase is dirty and hot, and it snakes down my back. “No safe words. No nonsense or codes. Nothing but honesty between us.”
He pulls my dress up, and I don’t prevent him. I lean onto the tree, pulling my wrists slightly against the grip of his hands and relishing the way he doesn’t give in.
“Open your legs,” he murmurs, pushing the back of his hand against my inner thigh, and I obey.
His fingers are gentle as he caresses my bare skin, but I tremble. It’s fear, right?
God, I’m such a liar.
The words are just there. “Zane, stop.”
“You’re so young.” He sounds tortured. “But I can’t not have everything you give and more. I need you. Stop me now…”
I do not want him to stop. I want him to take , so I’m not being an idiot, or falling in… Love.
He slides his big hand over my hip with ease, and finds the seam of my knickers.
“Tell me, no, little bunny,” he says hoarsely. “We shouldn’t be doing this…” But he doesn’t hesitate.
I should object as he gently delves beneath the cotton, but instead, I let my head fall back as he reaches where I’m hot and needy. The bark of the tree digs in where I’m levering off it to get closer to him while pretending not to.
“You’re wet.” There’s approval in his words, and satisfaction. He was right.
I close my eyes as I feel a flush creep over my cheeks. I’m a whore. “No.”
“You say ‘no’.” His finger slides effortlessly into my folds. Then he brushes over my clit and I almost levitate, my body electrified. “But this says ‘yes’, little bunny.”
But I writhe, trying to get his fingers where I need them.
He chuckles softly, and circles my clit with an expert touch, making me shake and pant. His pressure is perfect. Not too hard or too soft like I did when I first discovered how to pleasure myself. Zane’s confidence and competence is a turn-on like I’ve never imagined.
I’ve been told stories about the London Mafia Bosses since I can remember words. They’re said to be brutal, uncompromising, power hungry, and arrogant. Bethnal Green is supposed to be one of the worst.
And I can’t deny that there’s truth in what was said. Zane is all those things. But he’s also intoxicating. His attention focused on me makes me glow.
A cocky London Mafia Boss.
But is it really ego when he’s this amazing? Because he is that good.
I’m so close, wriggling to get more. To have that extra that will tip me off the edge.
“Such a needy girl, soaked for me,” His voice is low and rough. “You want this as much as I do, don’t you?”
I moan as he moves his hand down, and with no warning, his fingertip finds my entrance. Seamlessly, the flat of his thumb rubs my clit, and it’s even better. Then he pushes.
“Open,” he commands.
There’s a pinch that makes me gasp, then he drives his finger deeper and it feels amazing.
“That’s it. You’re being such a good girl for me.” He slips in and out as he runs over my clit in firm lines, and the feeling of being stroked from inside and out is intoxicating. “Let me in.”
Seamlessly, he slides another finger in, and I choke out a cry.
“Good girl,” he soothes me again, his voice honey and brandy dripping off a spoon. “You like that? My cock will be even better.”
The flex of his hips presses the heated iron bar of his erection against my stomach and the touch of discomfort only heightens my pleasure. That and the frisson of fear. He’s big, and I’m tiny by comparison. How would it feel…?
I imagine him ripping open his trousers and shoving into me right here, and yes, my god, I want that. To have him overwhelm me.
“Come all over my fingers, little bunny,” he croons. “Give me all your cream. I’ll take care of you. I’ll make it so pleasurable. I’ll give you babies too. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
I can’t say yes, but I’m nodding against his chest. Or am I writhing with need because I’m so close to orgasm? The way he’s holding me pinches in a dozen different places, but he’s careful. I can tell, even through the fog of ecstasy that has enveloped my mind, that he’s aware of every part of me.
“Zane…”
He’s still before I’ve finished the word.
My eyes fly open and he’s looking down at me. He hasn’t let go, but he’s stopped. There’s a taut silence as he slowly withdraws his fingers.
“No, no.” I’m confused and tug against his hand that’s still holding mine. “Please.”
“Willow,” he breathes seriously, his eyes shards of ice. “What are you saying?”
“Please, give me…” I’m so worked up, I’m practically incoherent. “Please, make me…”
He waits.
“Make me come,” I sob out the confession.
“My love. I’ll give you everything.” Then his fingers slide back into my slit, and he’s moving harder. “Good girl for asking. All you ever have to do is ask.”
Then his fingers shove into my passage, beckoning me, and I shatter into a million pieces, the pleasure spiked and quick even as it repeats, pulsing through me with his clever caresses.
The bliss is so intense that my legs give way, and I slump, but he holds me secure. I’m buzzing and all my focus is on the places where he and I touch.
A chirping bird intrudes.
Then the cool of the tree trunk and the dig of pain into my back, and the sunshine on my cheek.
The rise and fall of his chest and the loosening of his grip on my hands until he guides them to flop against his chest.
The shame comes last, and it’s weak, unable to overcome the satisfaction of being the centre of this big, powerful man’s world. For now, at least.
I make a vague sound of dissent as he bends, but this time when he scoops me up, I’m cradled in his arms, not over his shoulder. The essence of Zane mixes with the clean outdoorsy-ness of the forest, and I give in again, breathing it in. Sandalwood and musk.
The men of the Maldon mafia never smelled this good. All I know is, it’s good. He has a compulsive scent that makes me want to bury my nose into his skin and rub my face over him. It’s like he has new-book smell.
Forcing myself away from his book-like pheromones, or whatever it is I’m responding to, I look around.
“This isn’t the way we came.” I didn’t take much notice, but the woodland is different here, and there’s more undergrowth. Fewer crunchy copper-coloured leaves.
“Nope,” he agrees. “It’s a shortcut.”
“Where to?”
But there’s no reason for him to answer, because at that moment we emerge from the forest at the bottom of a grass avenue lined with trees. It leads to an imposing red brick mansion with ivy growing up the walls and lilac flowers over the porch. Zane Bethnal’s country residence.
I’m in a white silk wedding dress, being carried by a strong, handsome man who says he loves me, towards the sort of place dreams are made of.
I should pinch myself. Does that even work? I’ve not tried it in a dream, and actually, upon reflection, I don’t want to wake up. This is the best dream I’ve had for a long time.
So I remain silent as Zane carries me to the house. He nods slightly as he points out the tennis courts off to the side, that there are stables, and a rose garden.
It’s a mansion. That was obvious from a distance, but the second Zane steps inside, the door opened by one of his men, it’s breathtaking. The wallpaper is a painting of leaves, flowers, and birds, the floor is an intricate geometric pattern made from gleaming wood, and the whole entrance hall is flooded with light from a glass dome above.
“Aren’t you going to put me down?” I ask halfway up the double, curved wooden staircase.
“So you can run and hurt your feet again?” he responds dryly, turning at the top and entering the first door, skilfully opening it without even shifting my weight in his arms. “No.”
“Just gonna carry me around like I’m your lapdog? I want a diamante collar and steak every day.”
His chest vibrates as he laughs, and I’m stupidly happy that he likes my jokes. None of my family ever did. Do. Am I talking about them as though they’re gone already?
Maybe it’s true that they’re in my past, since I have just been kidnapped by their enemy.
All my firsts .
He kicks the door closed behind him, and I examine the room from my place tight in his arms. It’s painted a deep green-blue with accents of pale grey. The furniture is all free-standing dark wood. No space-saving fitted wardrobes here, nope.
“Don’t move,” he instructs severely as he places me onto the enormous four-poster bed. The sheets have an expensive sheen, and I secretly caress them as I watch him.
He strides across the room, through another door to what seems to be a bathroom decked with those small rectangular white tiles. He busies himself in a cupboard, his back to me.
I split my attention between my captor and looking around. The windows are that old-fashioned type with two sets of six panes of glass, and look out over the huge lawn that leads down to a lake, and the endless blue and cloud-patterned sky. I’m used to comfort since my family is wealthy enough. But it’s all new money, all shiny steel, magnolia paint, and glass. None of the refinement that Bethnal’s house has.
“Is this your bedroom?” I can’t see much to indicate that. It’s austere. Everything in its place, behind doors, except for a watch on the bedside cabinet.
“It’s yours now, too.” He returns and I look up at him. Up, and up, because he towers over me, intimidating and thrilling. Mine too?
But I don’t have time to examine that thought, because he scoops me into his arms, and I let out a squeak and instinctively cling to him. In response he merely holds me tighter, as though he understands my need to be secure.
The bathroom has two big marble sinks, a shower that you could do laps of, and an enormous roll top bath. Only one toothbrush, I note.
“Do you have a wife, or a girlfriend?” I ask as he sits me on the edge of the bath. It’s partly filled, and I whine as my feet touch the warm water, the dress rucked over my thighs. The water releases all the pain I’ve been ignoring.
“It wouldn’t hurt if you hadn’t run from me,” he chastises me in an undertone.
My feet sting, and I gaze at where brown and red float off my toes. Mud and blood from where I ran from Zane. He’s right, but I don’t regret making him chase me down.
“And no, I don’t have a wife or girlfriend.” He’s moved around to the other side of the bath, and leans on the edge, regarding me levelly. “There hasn’t been anyone for years. But now there’s you.”
He reaches down and it takes me a second to realise what he’s doing. He’s rolled up his sleeves, revealing a pattern of black tattoos over his forearms, and picks up a pristine white washcloth. His arms are bulky and strong, and as he lifts my foot. I’m too shocked to object, and too entranced by the muscles in his shoulders and upper arms as he cleans my foot. The tattoos—mainly patterns, but I can identify eyes disfigured in various ways, and some kind of long blackberry fruits held in a skeleton hand, the red juice dripping over the bone—disappear up under his shirt.
I want to see what he looks like when he’s fully revealed. It’s a sensation I’ve never had before. Boys haven’t interested me, but Zane…
He has a gentle touch, and he makes low, rumbling sounds of apology but says nothing when I wince and hiss as he picks out the grit and mud and brushes the small cuts until both my feet are perfectly pink. A London mafia boss cleans my tootsies without a word, as though this is completely normal.