CHAPTER 10 THE TASTE OF RUIN POV THAYER
There is no hesitation. No gentle, tentative exploration of boundaries.
When my mouth crashes down on hers, it is an act of absolute, unadulterated violence disguised as a kiss. It is a collision of two shattered worlds, a tectonic shift that completely obliterates whatever fragile, civilized restraint I had left in my body.
Sybil gasps against my lips, a sharp, broken sound that I immediately swallow. The taste of her is a catastrophic revelation—chamomile tea, the salt of her tears, and the dark, intoxicating metallic tang of pure, adrenaline-laced terror. It is the most addictive substance I have ever consumed.
I slide both of my hands into the heavy, dark silk of her hair, my fingers gripping the back of her skull with an iron-clad possessiveness that borders on cruelty.
I angle her head precisely where I want it, locking her in place, completely eliminating any possibility of retreat.
Not that she is trying to run. That is the detail that is currently shredding the last remnants of my sanity.
She isn't fighting me.
The girl who flinched at my shadow, the girl who was conditioned by her father to view physical contact as a precursor to pain, is actively leaning into the monster.
Her small, trembling hands are still desperately clutching the lapels of my ruined, open dress shirt.
Her fingers dig into my bare chest, her nails biting into my skin right over the heavy, frantic thud of my heart.
I groan—a low, feral vibration that rumbles deep in my chest and transfers directly into hers.
I part her lips with the bruising pressure of my own, entirely invading her mouth.
She tastes like ruin. She tastes like the war I am going to wage on the entire city of Chicago just to keep her breathing.
The slide of my tongue against hers sends a violent, electrical shockwave straight down my spine, pulling the blood from my brain and sending it rushing heavy and hot to my groin.
Her knees buckle slightly, her body completely overwhelmed by the sheer, dominating force of my proximity.
I don't let her fall. I wrap my left arm entirely around her waist, my massive hand splaying wide across the small of her back beneath the oversized cotton t-shirt.
I haul her flush against my body, lifting her onto her toes.
The soft, yielding curve of her stomach presses intimately against the rigid, heavy ridge of my arousal.
She whimpers, the sound vibrating against my tongue. A violent shudder rips through her small frame, and suddenly, her hands slide up my chest, her arms wrapping tightly around my neck. She anchors herself to me, surrendering completely to the drowning current.
It is a profound, terrifying victory.
I break the kiss, tearing my mouth from hers just far enough to drag a ragged, desperate lungful of air into my burning chest.
Sybil’s head falls back, her spine arching over my arm.
Her eyes are squeezed shut, her long, dark lashes wet with tears.
Her chest heaves violently, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps that echo loudly in the sterile, suffocating silence of the bunker.
Her lips are swollen, bruised a deep, flushed crimson from the force of my mouth.
She looks thoroughly ravaged. Thoroughly claimed.
A dark, possessive hunger uncoils in my gut, demanding far more than just a kiss.
The restraint required to keep from throwing her down onto the concrete floor and consummating this marriage right here, covered in the blood of my enemies, is a physical agony that makes the muscles in my jaw lock until my teeth grind.
But she needs to know exactly what this is. She needs to understand that I am not just taking her body; I am rewriting her entire psychological foundation.
"Look at me," I command, my voice a demonic, sleep-rough rasp that scrapes against the heavy air of the vault.
She shakes her head weakly, her face flushed with a heavy, feverish heat, completely consumed by the shame and the overwhelming sensory overload of my touch.
"Look at me, Sybil." My grip on her waist tightens, a silent, unyielding demand.
Slowly, her heavy eyelids flutter open. The midnight blue of her irises is entirely swallowed by her blown pupils. She looks up at me, entirely vulnerable, entirely exposed.
"You belong to me," I whisper, leaning down until my mouth is hovering mere millimeters from the delicate, frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat. "Every fear you have. Every drop of blood in your veins. It is all mine."
I don't wait for her to agree. I open my mouth and press an open-mouthed kiss directly over her wildly beating carotid artery.
She gasps, her fingers tightening painfully in my hair.
I suck the sensitive skin into my mouth, biting down just hard enough to elicit a sharp, breathy moan from her lips, but not hard enough to break the skin.
I draw a dark, bruised brand onto the pale expanse of her neck.
A permanent, visual reminder to anyone who ever dares to look at her that she is the exclusive property of the Thorne Syndicate's Don.
I soothe the sting with a wet drag of my tongue, feeling the violent, involuntary shiver that cascades down her spine.
I step forward, forcing her to walk backward. One step. Two steps.
Her back collides with the cold, unyielding steel of the bunker’s reinforced wall.
The impact makes her breath hitch, but she doesn't try to escape.
I follow her down, pressing my heavy frame entirely against hers, effectively pinning her between the impenetrable metal and the unstoppable force of my obsession.
I drop my right hand, my palm sliding down the outside of her thigh, over the thin, dark fabric of her leggings. She is trembling so violently it feels like she might shatter into a million pieces.
I slide my hand around to the back of her knee and pull her leg up, wrapping it around my hip.
The movement slots my hips perfectly against the aching, desperate center of her body. She cries out—a raw, visceral sound of pure shock and unadulterated need—as the heavy friction of my arousal grinds directly against her heat.
"Thayer," she begs, the word a completely shattered plea.
"Tell me what you want," I murmur, my lips brushing against the shell of her ear, my hot breath making her squirm against the steel wall. I slide my hand under the hem of my oversized t-shirt that she is wearing.
The moment my rough, calloused fingers make contact with the bare, feverish skin of her upper thigh, she completely short-circuits. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her head tossing back against the metal as she desperately chases the oxygen I keep stealing from her.
"Please," she whimpers, her hips instinctively bucking against me, a microscopic, deeply betraying movement that nearly snaps my control in half.
"Please what, little bird?" I taunt, my voice a dark, lethal purr.
I drag my fingertips agonizingly slowly up the back of her thigh, mapping the soft, flawless curve of her flesh, edging closer and closer to the delicate white lace of her underwear.
"You want me to stop? You want me to step back and leave you alone in the dark? "
"No," she sobs, the denial completely immediate, completely desperate. "No, don't stop. Don't leave me."
The admission is a shot of pure adrenaline straight to my heart.
Don't leave me. Her father left her. He abandoned her to a pack of wolves without a second glance. I am the wolf that caught her, but I am the only one who is never going to let her go.
My fingers brush the edge of the damp lace between her legs.
Sybil arches off the wall with a sharp, breathless cry, her entire body bowing into my touch. The heat radiating from her is absolute. She is completely soaked for me, completely desperate for a release from the agonizing tension I have been carefully building for twenty-four hours.
I cup her entirely through the lace, my large hand possessing her completely. I apply a slow, heavy pressure with the heel of my palm, grinding my thumb directly over the swollen, ultra-sensitive bundle of nerves hidden beneath the fabric.
She shatters almost instantly.
The orgasm rips through her with terrifying violence.
Her internal muscles clamp down hard, her thighs squeezing tightly against my hand and my hip.
She screams my name into the quiet bunker, a ragged, beautiful sound that I absorb entirely into my own body.
She goes completely rigid against the steel wall, her nails leaving bloody half-moons in the skin of my back, before she collapses entirely, her legs giving out beneath her.
I catch her. I wrap both of my arms around her limp, trembling body, holding her securely against my chest as the aftershocks violently wrack her frame. I bury my face in her neck, breathing in the scent of her climax, my own body screaming in agonizing protest at the denial of my own release.
But I am a patient man. I have waited six years. I will wait until she begs me to take it all.
I hold her against the wall for five minutes, listening as her rapid, panicked breathing slowly evens out into deep, exhausted sighs. Her face is buried in the hollow of my shoulder, her tears soaking into my skin. She is completely ruined. Completely mine.
Then, the absolute worst sound in the world shatters the quiet intimacy of the vault.
A harsh, grating buzz echoes from the encrypted intercom system mounted on the command console across the room. The biometric lock on the main doors flashes a blinding, urgent red.
I don't move. I close my eyes, a dark, murderous rage instantly spiking in my blood. I tighten my grip on Sybil, refusing to acknowledge the intrusion.
The intercom buzzes again. Louder. More insistent.