Chapter 8 #3
“Still think you're in control?” he murmurs roughly, teeth grazing sensitive skin, eliciting a gasp I can't suppress. He bites at the soft flesh between my neck and collar, and I yelp out from the pain.
“Let go of me,” I pant breathlessly, straining gently against his grip, both resenting and relishing the delicious helplessness he's forced upon me. There isn’t even an ounce of believable demand in my voice. I want his hands on my body. I'm intoxicated by the taste of his lips on mine.
Gone is my need to flee, replaced only with the desire to rip my dress off and push my naked skin against his.
I should be embarrassed by my sudden submission, but instead, all I find is comfort in it.
I should fight harder, stick up for myself a bit longer, but rather than fight to be free, I submit to the behavior I know. What I was bred for.
His free hand slides slowly along my thigh, pushing beneath the hem of my dress that’s ridden up to the tops of my thighs, teasing higher with deliberate cruelty. My breath stutters, anticipation coiling tightly in my core, as I instinctively press closer, silently pleading for more.
He pauses just short of satisfaction, his gaze locking onto mine, dark eyes glittering with dangerous triumph. “Admit it," he commands huskily. "You crave this, crave losing yourself to me."
My mind is battling the raw desire of my body. “Fuck. You.”
A low chuckle vibrates through his chest as he tightens his grip, fingertips bruising lightly against my wrists. I can no longer breathe. I'm so turned on. “You’re not ready yet, darling.”
His lips crash back into mine, swallowing any protests as pleasure blurs into pain, resistance melts into yearning, and the fierce heat of his kiss claims my surrender, one scorching inch at a time.
His fingers trail higher, a teasing whisper of calloused fingertips against fevered skin, until they find the damp lace barely covering me. He groans low, the sound vibrating against my lips, as he hooks his fingers into the soaked fabric.
“Dripping for me,” he mutters darkly, his breath hot against my jaw. “And you still want to pretend you’re not mine?”
My gasp is half a whimper, half a challenge, my body betraying me as I arch into him. The pressure of his grip on my wrists is a reminder—I’m pinned at his mercy, and I hate how much I love it.
“Say it,” he demands, a slow, torturous drag of fingers pressing where I need him most, not nearly enough but just enough to make me tremble. “Say you want this.”
I bite my lip, refusing to give in so easily, even as my resolve crumbles with every calculated stroke.
His free hand tightens in warning around my throat, a dark promise laced in his touch. “Martine,” he growls, voice thick with control and something dangerously close to obsession. “Say it.”
And God help me, I want to say it. But I refuse to break.
”I’ll never say it, I know you’ll take it anyway.” I gasp.
“Smart woman.” A smug chuckle vibrates against my throat as he takes his time, reveling in the way my body trembles beneath him. He hooks his fingers into my panties again and slides them down my trembling legs, his fingers hot against my goose-pimpled skin.
The bastard tucks them into his suit pocket and then gently brushes his knuckles against my dripping pussy. The ghost of his touch acts as such an intense contrast to his violent ways.
“So much for that sharp tongue,” he muses, dragging his lips along the shell of my ear. “Where’d all that fight go, darling?”
I whimper, barely able to breathe, let alone speak. My body is betraying me, hips tilting instinctively into his touch, craving more, needing more. Demanding it, but still, his fingers are a ghost.
His grip returns to my throat and tightens, holding me in place and reminding me that I’m in his control, my arms still pinned about my head with his other hand.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, hand leaving my throat, and going back down to my needy, wet heat. His fingers are skimming just short of where I need them. “Tell me how badly you want me to touch you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, my pride whispering at me to hold out, but the need burning through me is too strong. My breath hitches, and when I finally speak, my voice is barely a whisper from how tightly his hand is squeezing my neck.
“Please.” I whimper, sucking my bottom lip into my mouth. His satisfied hum sends a shiver down my spine.
“That’s better,” he praises, his fingers finally slipping into me, sliding through my arousal with slow, deliberate strokes.
I moan, arching into his touch, but his grip holds me still.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet and sin. “Now let’s see how sweet you can be when you really beg.”
His fingers continue their slow torment, pressing, teasing, never giving me enough.
They slip through my aching pussy delicately, just missing where I desperately need them the most. My body is on fire, nerves frayed, and my mind slipping further into submission with every cruel stroke.
He knows it, feels it in the way I melt beneath him, in the soft, desperate sounds escaping my lips.
Then he stops.
I whimper at the loss, my body instinctively chasing his touch, but his grip tightens, keeping me in place. His dark, knowing gaze pins me, hunger and authority simmering behind his smirk.
“Open your mouth,” he orders, his voice thick with amusement.
A shiver runs through me. My lips part without hesitation, my breath coming fast as I stare up at him, wide-eyed, waiting.
He brings the two fingers he was just using to explore the most intimate part of my body and drags them along my lower lip, spreading my arousal there.
I lick my lips without thinking, the salty and sweet taste of my desire bursting across my tongue from his possessive and claiming touch.
“Open wider, stick out your tongue”. And I do. Quickly.
“What a good little whore,” he murmurs. Without breaking eye contact, he bends down, his nose nearly grazing mine, and he spits into my waiting mouth.
The warm slickness lands on my tongue, sharp with the taste of vodka and the faint salt of him. My breath shudders as I hold his gaze, my pulse hammering. The degradation of it sends a dark thrill spiraling through me, hot and dizzying.
“Swallow,” he commands, his voice low, unwavering.
And I do. My tongue curls around the taste before I let it slide down my throat, a quiet moan slipping free as I lick my lips, savoring him. I’m lost to the desire to be used by him, my fight having left the estate only five minutes into dinner.
His smirk deepens at my moan, his fingers tightening against my jaw. “Such a good girl, darling,” he murmurs approvingly. “So eager to be used.”
Heat floods me, shame and desire tangling into something I can’t fight. I should hate this. I should push him away.
Instead, I nod. Silent. Obedient. Ready for more.
But there is no more.
The phone ringing startles me against Hayden's chest. With a frustrated sigh, he pushes me back and abandons me on the table as the double doors open and a footman comes in carrying a telephone on a silver tray. Moving quickly across the room, he answers it.
The other set of doors are thrown open in perfect timing as the butler begins tidying the mess that was made on the dining table. With red cheeks aflame from both embarrassment and the position the help clearly witnessed me in, I hop off the grand dining table and straighten my dress.
I can’t hear what Hayden is saying, but he sets the receiver down and is back over to me in less than a second, grabbing my chin with a punishing grip.
“I’m leaving, and this is your warning to behave,” he growls, and I force myself to bite back a sharp retort. Before I can think of a more well-behaved response, he’s leaving the dining room, and I’m standing in the grand room, very cold and very alone.
Hayden Herron
The request was simple: retrieve the documents, hand them off, and ask no questions. It should have been a clean job. But nothing in my life ever comes without complications. Now I'm being called away again, this time to uncover precisely what Archibald and I pulled from that safe.
The moment I got the call, I knew it was an order to return to our assignment.
It’s always been like this—we receive orders, trails to follow, tails to chase, and like good soldiers, we follow commands, knowing eventually we’ll be the leaders of the world, relying on the next batch of brand new Bonesmen to carry out our dirty work.
The drive to the meeting place is long enough to give me too much time to think, which is a problem in itself.
I hate being left alone with my thoughts.
They creep in, digging under my skin like splinters I can't pull out.
The mansion I left behind is a world of indulgence, but this?
This is reality. And reality is a far less forgiving mistress.
I arrive at the designated location, an old estate just outside of town, once grand but now standing in quiet decay. The man waiting inside doesn’t bother with pleasantries.
“You and Franklin retrieved some significant papers last week,” he says, cutting straight to the point.
I lean against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “That's what we were told.”
His lips curl into something not quite a smile. “And now you’re going to find out why they're important.”
I exhale sharply. “Not my problem.”
“It is now.”
He slides a folder across the desk. I don’t pick it up immediately, letting the silence hang between us — a test of patience. He breaks first.
“Martine’s mother is connected to those documents,” he says, lowering his voice as if sharing some great revelation. “I assume you understand the implications.”
I do. And I don’t like them.
Taking the folder, I open it. The contents are dense, comprising pages upon pages of reports, financial records, and a stack of black-and-white photos that hint at something much larger than a simple mission.
Margaux Belmont.
Martine’s mother.