CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #2
He clasps my throat, squeezing the sides just enough to send a fleeting signal of peril to my brain that has me itching to reciprocate the adrenaline rush.
He bites my shoulder, hard, and plunges three forceful fingers inside me.
Guttural moans radiate from me in an unspoken plea.
For what? I’m not even sure. He sucks all the oxygen out of the room, so he’s my only source of air, thought, life.
“You’re sopping, Tess. Making a damn mess all over my bed. Answer my question.”
No clue what the question was. I’m delirious.
Reaching behind me, I fist his hair and tug on the silky strands to make it clear I’m not relinquishing all control. His groan tells me he respects that, which only ignites a blazing inferno in my core, burning my pride and empowering me to beg.
“More.” I buck my hips backward, goading him. “I need you inside me.”
“Earn it,” he growls.
Earn it? Fuck him.
Jerking his head beside mine and craning my neck, I set my flintiest glare on him as my free hand finds his balls with an admonishing squeeze. “Stop fucking with me, Maddox, or you’ll be the one with the throbbing reminder between your thighs tomorrow.”
A boisterous laugh spills out of him. “I love it when you get all scary, Nightmare, but you’ve got trust issues.
I’m not fucking with you. I’m making you forget and learning you so I can deliver everything you crave, as promised.
” His smile is all haughty charm and wry seduction.
“You came on my knife. You’ll come on my tongue.
Then I’ll flatten you against that window and slam my cock so deep inside you that my piercings etching my name into your pussy will be the only thing you remember about this day. ”
“Up against the glass?” I practically wheeze as my gaze hitches to the Big Easy.
“That’s right, my little exhibitionist.” He rakes his teeth over my feverish skin, trailing the slope from my shoulder to my neck and up to my ear while his relentless pumps fill me with too much and not quite enough. “You like that? You’re even wetter now, soaking my hand.”
I am. It’s trickling down my legs. My entire body is chilled. Aflame. Wanton.
As if he knows he has me in the most vulnerable sexual state I’ve ever encountered, he slings a vow that steals the air from my lungs.
“We might be keeping this a secret for now, but someday, I’ll shout to the world that you’re mine.
Until then, you can let the visual of coming on my cock with the city at your feet, like the goddamn queen you are, remind you of who you belong to. ”
That both emboldens and infuriates me. I squirm in defiance, but it’s of no use. So, I lurch forward out of his grasp, twirling around to face him, my legs extended wide to showcase the pussy he’s enamored by while I rip his shirt open, the buttons diving to freedom.
“Don’t go catching feelings, Drac. I don’t do gentle.”
“Good to know,” he rasps, lowering himself until his breath fans over my aching heat, causing a delightful shiver to rack through me. And as my hips lift to meet him of their own accord, he smacks my clit with a warning smirk. “Neither do I.”
My body trembles in response, the startling tingle radiating through me, and true to form for the duplicitous Noire, he uses my shock to his advantage.
In another acrobatic feat, he tows me toward him by yanking my legs and rolls me back over. My chest is shoved to the mattress, and my ass is in the air. It’s all one fluid motion, as is him flipping himself onto his back so he’s lying with his face between my thighs.
That first languid swipe of his tongue on my pulsing heat is obliterating. The gravelly noises floating out of me proclaim my surrender. Losing a battle has never been more satisfying.
“Fuck,” he mumbles between feral licks, his fingertips digging into my hips to push my weight down, his elbows spreading my knees wider, his scruff tickling my inner thighs. “So damn sweet. Grind into me, baby. Fuck my face.”
Abandoning all reservations, I relent, swiveling my hips to the rhythm of his encouraging groans.
He consumes me like his favorite meal served before an execution.
And it unfurls something tangled inside me.
To be the object of such carnal desire is galvanizing.
He lashes and whirls in a bewitching tempo, one that has stars flitting before my eyes and my body determined to climb to the summit and fly like I did at the cabaret.
He sinks his fingers back inside me, the sloshing chorus of my arousal trilling an erotic tune.
“You can let go with me, Nightmare.” He shares that gentle reassurance against my drenched opening before a gruff, “Come for me.”
And just as I feared, even without his eyes latched to mine, the act is so intimate. It feels like more. Like too much. But it couldn’t hurt to indulge for one night, to glimpse what it would be like to be a woman who belonged by his side.
To be free. To be empowered. To be his.
Still, a defeating wave of anxiety descends upon me. Reading precisely what I need, he shimmies his arm beneath me and tweaks my nipple around the barbell. A spark of both pain and pleasure zooms through it, jolting me back to the ecstasy seizing my clit from his ravenous probing.
My muscles coil. My bones vibrate. Lungs empty. Back arches.
The room blurs to apricot streaks and newfound melodies. And all the sensations blend to one glorious, dizzying flight of rapture.
A strangled cry of euphoria rips from the depths of me, declaring the height of the climax, as I smother him with my quivering frame.
He laps and licks and swirls, waiting out the aftershock tremors.
And just as I’m about to take a centering breath, he drags me down his body and claims my lips, infusing my mouth with the flavor of me.
He palms my head and swallows my purrs, his steel-hard length spearing me from behind his zipper.
I smile into the kiss and reach to grip his swelling cock, suddenly shy and charged with weighty emotions, but determined to steamroll over them. “If I’m following your logic, I think falling apart on your tongue earns me the right to undress you.”
“That”—he licks at the seam of my lips before trailing his finger over my sternum tattoo—“earns you anything you want, baby girl. Anything. You’re perfect. All I want is that Pixy Stix flavor coating my tongue every fucking day.”
Every fucking day echoes in the recesses of my mind, taunting me with scenarios that are absurd and impossible. This will never work.
His declaration from after our kiss this morning floods me with equal measures of hope and unease.
“This is me telling you that the kiss back there was only the beginning. I want more. I’ll fight for more.”
More. I wonder what that means to him.
“I’ve got a drawer full of Pixy Stix downstairs at my desk, but I’m not the best at sharing, so you’d better get your fill tonight,” I quip to reroute us.
“I plan to. No need to share the candy. It couldn’t possibly compare to the real deal.” He kisses my temple, rolls me to the side, and hops off the bed.
It’s the first detailed perusal I’ve given to his room. Polished concrete floor. Sleek design. Blacks and purples, brightened by the streaming light. A wall of ornate knives, which is fitting and terribly disturbing. And an entire alcove of vintage albums. Wicked jubilation at its finest.
When I flick my attention to him, his clothes are long gone. He’s stunning. His thick onyx tresses are free, framing his scruffy face and hitting just above his broad shoulders. He’s corded and lean with long, sinewy, defined muscles. An alluring V and rippled abs.
His tattoos are intricate, mostly inked by Jax—a detail I already knew.
The general theme coordinates with his room.
Various knives. Music notes, some combined with other images, like a skeleton or death’s-head hawkmoth or fire.
Records that are bleeding, warped, or melting.
Various instruments and words, lyrics maybe.
There’s also an impressive 3D fleur-de-lis on his chest. The majority of his skin is covered, like he was trying to remake himself into art.
If that was the goal, he succeeded. I’m in awe.
He strokes his rock-hard dick, the piercings shimmering in the sunrays and the engorged head glistening with fervor. My mouth waters.
He grabs his phone, but as he’s swiping on it, those smoldering grays stay locked on me. “Get out of your head, accept what I’m telling you, and feel what you feel. I should have played music earlier to set the tone.”
My stomach flip-flops, an army of manic butterflies storming it.
Over the years, I’ve heard so many rumors about him being a player and emotionally stunted.
That’s not at all who he seems to be. Not today.
Not with me. I think I’d fare better with the fuckboy.
The man who says all the right things and sees the deeper parts of me is going to wreck me.
Crawling to sit at the edge of the bed, I bend forward and lap up the dollop of precum leaking from him as he smooths my hair back.
I glide my hand over the captive bead rings and take him into my mouth, welcoming him into the back of my throat and hollowing out my cheeks.
A thundering rumble roars from his chest, so I give him more.
Caressing his taint, kneading his balls, bobbing with everything I’ve got.
“Look at you.” He fists my strands and pistons his hips with brutal pumps. “So radiant, choking on my dick.”
Since he’s right where I need him, I pop off and share my rebuttal to his feel what you feel order.
“I’ll happily feel your cock ram into me when you press me against that window.
I’ll bask in the mind-blowing orgasms you promised.
I’ll even let you brand my tonsils. Anything else doesn’t belong here. ”
“Music always belongs.” He winks, offering me his hand to pull me to my feet and tossing his phone onto the pillow.