CHAPTER 20 #2
"Harper," he calls out, his voice surprisingly normal considering the storm in his eyes. "Sloane and I will wait by the fitting rooms. Take your time."
Harper, visible between the racks, nods distractedly, too busy comparing two bras.
Before I can protest, Dimitri drags me toward the back of the store, where a curtain separates the fitting room area. With a quick glance to make sure no one is watching, he pushes me inside one of the cubicles and pulls the curtain shut behind us.
The space is tiny. Barely twenty square feet, mirrors on three walls, warm lighting designed to flatter whoever is trying on clothes. But now it only reflects Dimitri and me, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he hisses, his voice a furious whisper. "What are you playing at?"
I should be scared. I'm trapped in a minuscule space with a man who could snap my neck with one hand. But the only thing I feel is a wild, primitive arousal.
"Me?" I reply defiantly. "I'm just shopping, like any normal woman. You're the one who dragged me into a dressing room."
His hand moves so fast I barely see it. Suddenly, his fingers close around my throat—not hard enough to choke me, but enough to immobilize me. He pushes me gently against the mirrored wall, his body an imposing presence in front of mine.
"You're playing with fire," he murmurs, his face inches from mine. "Do you want to know what will happen to any man who even thinks about seeing you like this?"
His grip is firm but controlled, exerting pressure on the sides of my neck, not the trachea. It's a restraint, not a chokehold. And to my absolute surprise, it turns me on like nothing ever has.
A liquid heat spreads between my legs, my pulse races, and my breathing, already difficult because of his hand, becomes shallow for completely different reasons.
"You don't own me," I manage to articulate, my voice huskier than I expected. "If I'm... dissatisfied and can't get relief, I'll have to seek it out."
His pupils dilate, devouring the gray of his irises. His thumb caresses my jawline in an almost tender gesture that contradicts the possessiveness of his grip.
"Is that it?" he asks, his voice a dark rumble vibrating against my skin. "Are you provoking me because you're horny and frustrated?"
The blush rises up my neck to my cheeks, but I hold his gaze. I'm not backing down now.
"And so what if I am?"
A slow, predatory smile curves his lips. Without letting go of my throat—that grip awakening sensations I never knew I liked before him—his other hand descends down my body. It trails down my neck, my collarbone, the valley between my breasts, my stomach, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
"You could have just said so," he murmurs, his fingers toying with the button of my jeans. "It would have been much simpler."
My heart beats so hard I'm sure he can feel it under his fingers. His hand slides inside my pants, under the fabric of my panties, and finds the wetness betraying my arousal.
"You're soaking wet," he whispers against my ear, his hot breath making my skin prickle. "Is all this for me?"
I want to deny it. I want to maintain some kind of control over the situation. But then his fingers find my clitoris and all capacity for coherent thought abandons me.
A moan escapes my lips, quickly silenced by his hand pressing gently on my throat.
"Shh," he warns, his voice mixing amusement and desire. "You don't want the whole store to know what we're doing, do you?"
His fingers begin to move in precise circles, applying the exact pressure, as if he already knew my body, as if he knew exactly how to touch me to drive me crazy. Meanwhile, his grip on my throat remains firm, controlling my breathing, constantly reminding me who holds the power.
And the most disturbing part is that I love it. I love feeling dominated like this, at the mercy of his expert hands, unable to move, to breathe, to think of anything but the sensations he's provoking in my body.
"Tell me, Sloane," he whispers, using my name for the first time in what feels like an eternity. "Is this what you wanted? Is this what you've been looking for with your provocations?"
Two of his fingers slide inside me, curling perfectly against that spot that makes me see stars. His thumb continues stimulating my clitoris with firm, precise movements. It's too much. It's perfect.
"Answer me," he demands, his voice a low growl as he increases the pressure on my throat, just a little, just enough to make me lightheaded, to make every sensation intensify.
"Yes," I gasp, the words escaping without my permission. "God, yes."
His smile against my skin is that of a satisfied predator. His fingers pick up the pace, driving me closer and closer to the edge. I'm trapped between his body and the mirror, completely at his mercy, and I've never felt more alive.
"Come for me," he orders, his voice raw with desire. "Now."
As if my body were programmed to obey, the orgasm hits me with brutal force.
A wave of pleasure so intense my knees would buckle if not for his body holding me against the wall.
My internal muscles contract around his fingers, my vision blurs, and I have to bite my lip until it nearly bleeds to keep from screaming.
Dimitri maintains the rhythm, prolonging my climax until it's almost painful. Only then does he slowly withdraw his fingers, leaving me trembling and panting. His hand leaves my throat with the same delicacy, as if he feared he'd hurt me.
For a few seconds, we stay like that, breathing the same air, our bodies so close I can feel his erection pressing against my belly. I wait for him to kiss me, to finish what he started, to seek his own pleasure.
Instead, he brings the fingers that were inside me to his lips and licks them slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Next time you want attention," he says, his voice controlled despite the obvious tension in his body, "just ask for it. You don't need games."
And without another word, he turns and walks out of the fitting room, leaving me alone, trembling, and more confused than ever.
I look at myself in the mirror: flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips swollen from biting them. I look exactly like what I am: a woman who just had the most intense orgasm of her life at the hands of a man she should hate.
A man who just proved he has as much control over me as I thought I had over him.
Straightening my clothes with trembling fingers, I try to regain my composure. Part of me wants to feel victorious for having provoked him to that point. Another part, the more honest one, knows I've lost this battle.
Because now I know exactly what it feels like to be under his dominion. And the worst part is, I want more.
Much more.