CHAPTER 8 #2
She keeps thrashing, kicking her boots against my shins.
I'm done playing nice. I keep my iron grip on her wrists pinned above her head and drop straight to my knees.
The sudden downward motion pulls her arms taut, stretching her out against the freezing tile.
I drive my head and shoulders aggressively between her thighs, shoving her knees wide apart.
I don't go for her center right away. I turn my head, open my mouth, and sink my teeth gently but firmly into the sensitive, pale skin of her inner thigh.
I drag my teeth upward, leaving a red, stinging mark to match the violent scars across my own ribs. She gasps loudly, her legs jerking.
I spot a single bead of sweat rolling down the side of her knee. I flick my tongue out and lick it off the skin.
"You taste like adrenaline," I mutter against her thigh.
I grab the waistband of her scrub pants with my free hand and yank them down to her boots in one smooth motion, tearing her panties with them. She is completely exposed to me.
"Open for me," I demand, shoving my shoulders deeper between her legs to spread her wider. "I'm going to take this from you."
"Damon, don't—please—"
"Don't look away." I bury my face between her thighs.
I use my mouth with a punishing, relentless intensity.
I don't give her soft, loving coaxing. I use my tongue rough and insistent, finding her slick center and working it with clinical, terrifying focus.
She tastes like salt and slick heat. When she whimpers and tries to squeeze her thighs shut against my head, I just tighten my fist around her pinned wrists, holding her firmly to the wall.
Her hips begin to buck involuntarily against my mouth.
I slide my free hand up her thigh, using my thumb to press down on her clitoris with heavy, bruising pressure.
I alternate between wet, slapping licks and hard, greedy sucks that draw broken sounds from the back of her throat.
"There it is," I say, my breath hot against her slick skin. "Your body is a liar, Margarita."
She’s sobbing now, her heels scraping wildly against the bathroom tile as I ruin her logic.
"Beg me to stop. I dare you," I taunt her, dragging my tongue deep again. "Give it to me."
She doesn't beg me to stop. She’s completely losing her mind.
As her breathing hitches and I feel the tension ratcheting up in her thighs, I slide two thick fingers inside of her, driving them deep and hard.
I mimic the frantic, violent pace of my mouth, stretching her out, filling her up, completely overstimulating every nerve ending she has.
The other hand keeps her immobilized against the wall.
I hook my two fingers inside her, curling them upward, literally pulling her hips forward off the wall so she has absolutely no choice but to take more of me.
"So wet. For a man you supposedly hate," I sneer, working her faster, harder. "Look at what I'm doing to you."
"Fuck! Damon!" She screams, the sound bouncing off the claustrophobic porcelain walls.
"You're almost there," I push my thumb down harder on her nerve cluster. "Don't you dare close your eyes."
The climax hits her like a freight train.
Her entire back arches off the wall, her head thumping back against the tile.
Her internal muscles clamp down and convulse violently around my fingers, crushing them in a desperate, rhythmic pulse.
She cries out—a raw, feral, totally broken sound that shatters her entire professional facade.
I don't pull away. I stay buried deep inside her.
I keep my fingers perfectly still inside her tight, wet heat through the entire duration of the pulse, feeling every single agonizing contraction as the tremors rack her exhausted body.
"That's it. Give it all to me," I say, my voice thick with absolute victory.
She slumps against the wall, her breath coming in ragged, spit-flecked gasps.
"Good girl," I whisper against her thigh. "Look at you. Broken. My beautiful, violent doctor."
I slowly withdraw my dripping fingers. I stand up to my full, towering height and finally release her wrists.
The second my hand leaves hers, Margarita slides down the wall like a puppet with its strings cut.
Her legs are entirely too weak to hold her weight.
She collapses into a pathetic heap on the freezing floor, her bare chest heaving, her dark eyes completely unfocused and glazed over with the aftershocks of the pleasure I just violently forced out of her.
I look down at her. I turn toward the steel sink. I wipe the wetness off my hand onto the discarded, ripped scrap of her blue scrubs sitting over the drain. It’s a cold, entirely dismissive gesture.
"Look at yourself," I tell her.
She pulls her knees to her chest, shivering violently.
"The tiles are cold, aren't they?" I ask, staring at her pale skin against the unforgiving floor. "Don't cry. You liked it."
A tear leaks out of the corner of her eye anyway, a silent admission of defeat.
"You're still mine, Margarita." I reach down and grab her jaw.
My fingers dig into her skin, forcing her head up to look at my face.
I am completely devoid of empathy. I squeeze her cheeks together just hard enough to make her lips pout out, asserting total ownership over the words coming out of her mouth.
"Admit it," I demand, my voice dropping to a lethal, vibrating command.
She shakes her head weakly against my grip.
"Say it. You wanted my hands on you." I squeeze a fraction tighter. "Say you crave the monster. I'm not leaving until I hear the words."
She stares up at me, humiliated, wrecked, completely stripped of the moral high ground she walked into the armory with. Her lips tremble between my fingers.
"I wanted it," she whispers, the words dragging out of her throat like broken glass.
I release her jaw instantly. I stand back and run my hands down the lapels of my suit jacket, smoothing the expensive fabric back into perfect place as if absolutely nothing just happened.
I turn my back to her and step toward the heavy door, leaving her curled up on the wet tile in the puddle of her own shame and biological betrayal.
I don't offer her a hand up. I don't say a kind word.
I pause at the door, pulling my sleeve back to check my silver watch with detached efficiency.
"Get up when you're finished being pathetic," I say to the wall. "I'll have a guard bring you fresh scrubs."
I pull the heavy door open. The sudden influx of stale hallway air hits the back of my neck.
"Don't try the guns again." I step out into the corridor. "I'll see you for dinner."
I walk away.