Chapter 17 Marcus #2
I push even further, limiting the room she has to breathe. Her cry cuts off, and her body jerks. A tear slips free beneath the mask.
I ease back at once, my mouth close to her ear. “Midnight,” I murmur. “You okay?”
She drags in a breath, steadying herself, but she doesn’t answer.
“You can use the safe word,” I remind her. “I’ll stop.”
The pause seems to spark something in her. “Never.”
I growl. She’s challenging me now, meeting me at the edge instead of retreating. I enter her again. The sensation is overwhelming, the connection brutal and perfect, and for a moment, I can’t tell where my control ends and her hunger begins.
I’m enjoying this as much as she is.
Too much.
“Wolf…Wolf…I’m going to—” Her voice breaks, her breath spilling out of her.
“No,” I bite out. “Not yet.” My grip tightens just enough to remind her who I am to her. “You don’t come unless I say so.”
She fights it. Her muscles draw tight, and her fists clench, her whole body turning against her.
A sound tears out of her, sharp and helpless, as something inside her surges beyond restraint.
She shudders hard, her head tipping back and her body tightening around me so suddenly that it nearly breaks my control.
Fuck.
I’ve never seen or felt anything like it.
I pull away, circling the table to face her. Her breathing is ragged, her expression undone.
“You didn’t listen,” I say, though the sight of her like this almost undoes me again.
She exhales, color flooding her face. “You know that wasn’t what I asked for,” she says, daring me to argue.
I gather her hair at the nape of her neck and tilt her head up, forcing her to meet me. “Believe me,” I say, “I know exactly what you asked for. And you’ll get it. In time.”
I free her from the cuffs and force her to her feet. She doesn’t waste the moment. Her gaze drags over me, open and hungry, but I don’t let it linger. I shuffle her down so that she lies on her back.
My knees come in tight at her hips, pinning her there. Then I lean down and take her tits in my mouth. They’re a sin I don’t bother pretending I won’t commit.
Her hips buck hard under me, and I don’t need to touch her to know what will come next.
How? All I’ve done is work her nipples, and she’s already close?
I know it can happen. I’ve just never had a woman respond like this, like every move I make flips a switch she can’t override. It feeds my ego, but it’s a problem. I want to give her what she wants with perfect timing, and I need her on board.
“For fuck’s sake, Midnight,” I growl. “Get a grip.”
She snarls, feral. Whether it’s at me or herself doesn’t matter. This woman won’t last much longer.
I pull back and stop dead.
She locks up, her breath tearing in and out of her chest, every muscle straining to hold it together. Barely.
“This is why you wait,” I tell her. “When I tell you not yet, you listen to me. It will be better for it.”
She nods, whether in agreement or something else, I can’t tell.
I take her again.
To her surprise, I slow myself down. This is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever shared with a woman, and I’m already past retreating. Now it’s about the timing. About knowing her well enough to guide her there without losing her along the way.
I glide into her entrance. She answers immediately, her breath changing and falling into rhythm with mine. We’re aligned, pace, pressure, anticipation. I feel the moment her body tightens, the subtle signal that tells me she’s close.
“Hold it there, Midnight.”
My hands come up, framing her neck, my fingers settling where her pulse answers me.
“Now,” I say. “Now.”
Her body reacts instantly. Her hips jolt, and that familiar tightening returns, her breath halting as the sensation crests. She would cry out if I let her, but instead, I hold her there.
My fingers press on her neck, exact and brief, denying her air long enough to tip her over the edge.
I’ve done this before, and I know how quickly it turns from transcendence to danger if mishandled. But done right, it’s pure sensation, color, and release.
And I bet my life she hasn’t known anything like it.
I release my hold and pull back.
Her face softens, tension draining away. Her mouth settles into something calm, and she takes a few uneven breaths, finding herself again.
I brush the pad of my thumb along her cheek. “Midnight,” I say. “Are you okay?”
She releases a faint “Mmh.”
She’s pink and supple. Her hips have gone still, but her nipples remain peaked, evidence of how hard she’d come.
I lower her head onto my lap. “I need to hear you,” I say. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she mumbles.
Tears gather beneath the mask and fall away. She holds on to me, her arms locked tight, containing the sound of her sobs. It isn’t desperation. It’s fulfillment. The kind that leaves you shook because something you asked for, something you needed, has finally been met.
I hold her until her breathing evens out. I have delivered what she asked for, and I know the protocol that follows.
I reach for a length of blue velvet. “Remember this?” I lift it where she can see, letting it sway.
She exhales, a faint smile curving her mouth. “I guess the game is over?”
I drape the velvet over her eyes, covering the mask. I still haven’t gotten what I came for, but if she chooses to stop here, I’ll honor that. There are other ways I can extract the confession out of her.
“Not unless you want it to be,” I say.
“Huh,” she murmurs.
“Do you want it to be over, Midnight?”
“No.”
Perfect. Because what comes next isn’t something she could have anticipated.
She chose me. Max was there, ready and impossible to ignore, yet she still wanted me. She was terrified when the cops closed in, yet she protected the Game. She protected me.
I reward loyalty.
And I reward her because she isn’t just Midnight.
She’s Iris Vaughn.