Chapter 7 Hailey
HAILEY
Rafail’s lips are warm and surprisingly soft, though his kiss is anything but.
His long, muscular body presses me into the covers.
Seconds ago, I wanted to stroke my palm down the long line of his back, from those broad shoulders to his narrow waist, feeling the play of movement beneath his tattooed skin.
Then his eyes darkened. After a beat of hesitation, as if he was waiting for me to respond with something other than snark and sarcasm, he kissed me. My entire world shifts. He isn’t gentle.
I don’t want to resist him.
I should.
But I don’t.
Instead, I part my lips when he seeks entrance with a sweep of his tongue.
His hold on my left wrist relaxes fractionally.
I work my hand free and cup the back of his head.
His black hair is silkier than I expected it to be.
Just long enough for me to run my fingers through it.
To tighten my grip instinctively when he invades past my teeth with unerring confidence.
I’ve never been kissed like this before.
With his free hand, he tugs aside the collar of my bathrobe and palms my breast. An embarrassing moan escapes from me.
“Good, Hailey. Stop resisting me. Your body knows what you need. Let me give it to you.”
Let. As if I could stop him if I wanted to.
I’m a little ashamed to admit I like the way he handles me.
With total confidence and fearlessness. He pushes aside the robe and kisses his way down my throat.
His touch lights up everything inside me like a Christmas tree.
When he palms my breast through the thin black T-shirt, I arch into him with a humiliating whimper.
His cock is hard again, pressed against my bare pussy.
If he weren’t wearing pants, he could slide right inside me.
Fill the aching need at my core. I part my thighs for him, and his muscular back flexes as he rubs against me.
With one hand still trapped beside my head, I can only skim the other down that enticing curve.
“Tell me how much you desire me,” he says in that gravelly voice that has always turned me on.
“I don’t,” I lie through my teeth.
“Admit it, and I’ll let you come.”
I shake my head. He sighs.
“By the time I’m done with you, printsesa, mine will be the only one you remember.”
“There hasn’t been anyone else,” I blurt out stupidly. He’s worked his way down my throat, trailing fiery hot kisses all the way to the hollow at the base, while I grasp his hair for dear life. He stills instantly.
“No one?”
Mute and humiliated, I shake my head. “I never…” How can I explain that I had a certain image in my head of what it would feel like, and that the image was always of Rafail? Do I want him to know that about me? “I never wanted to before, and I don’t now.”
“Still lying to me.” He sits back enough to untie the belt on my bathrobe and push it aside. For a moment, I’m sure he’s going to tug up the shirt to look at my breasts, but instead, he moves down the bed and parts my thighs. Suddenly, both my hands are free. I prop myself on my elbows in wonder.
He’s not going to…nobody does…that.
His tongue finds my hot slick center. A sound I don’t recognize comes out of me. I arch my back and let my knees fall wide. Is this really happening? My hot stepbrother, the one I pined after for years and thought I’d never see again, is going down on me like I’m a feast and he is a starving man?
His mouth is so good. The only problem is that he can’t talk dirty.
Back then, I was insistently bratty to him because it was the only way to get his attention.
Now that I have his full and undivided attention on my pussy, I can’t pretend I’m not doing it to get him to say the filthiest things to me.
I’m a mess. I’ll deal with that later. Right now, forget pride, I am on a journey of discovery via his face.
He licks and sucks, but it isn’t enough. I want more. I can feel the wetness dripping down the curve of my ass. He flicks his tongue over my clit with vicious precision.
When he’s driven me to the brink of insanity, he backs off. “Tell me you belong to me.”
“I belong to myself, but you’re welcome to return the favor of getting me off.”
His mouth, slick with my arousal, quirks up. “Say you’re mine and I’ll let you come.”
“Let,” I echo. “Fine. I’ll finish myself. Can’t depend upon a man any-oh.”
I can admit I snaked my hand down to my pussy with every intention of finishing what he started.
I am having considerable difficulty believing that he caught both my wrists, pinned them beside my hips, and dove back down to suck on my throbbing, needy clit.
I come so hard I see stars. I writhe against his punishing grip.
This isn’t pleasure; it’s ownership. He’s proving that I am his, body and soul.
The worst part is that I can’t decide whether I want this or not.
The more forceful he is, the more I love it, and the more I hate him for it.
He is not the tolerant, long-suffering stepbrother I once knew.
And I’m not his little princess. I am writhing with dark needs that only he can satisfy.
“Rafe, fuck me,” I plead as the pulsing wave finally ebbs. He kisses me there and pulls back.
“Not tonight, milly,” he says, pulling my bathrobe closed with smug fondness.
“Are you serious? And my name isn’t ‘Milly,’ by the way. It’s not ‘princess,’ either.”
“I said mil-ley, not Milly. ‘Darling’ in Russian. Do you ever shut up?” He has the absolute fucking temerity to pull me into his arms like we’re going to cuddle or something ridiculous.
I seriously doubt any bratva mafioso has ever engaged in post-coital cuddling in the entire history of criminal enterprise.
Yet he pulls me against his chest and tugs the blankets over us.
“Not unless you chloroform me in a parking garage again,” I mumble sullenly. I came, but it was insufficient. I want more. I want him to take me hard and fast, as violently as a summer storm.
“That can be arranged,” he murmurs against my ear.