Chapter 25
TROY
She’s a mess.
Flour in her hair, her lips smudged with something sweet. Icing all over her hands. She smells like cinnamon and vanilla, wild lavender and something else that’s just her.
The kitchen is freezing as always, but she’s made her own warmth; the oven’s heat, the steam rising from the cakes on the cooling racks, her presence.
It’s the only warm corner in this godforsaken house, and I’m drawn to it.
She’s caught me well and truly. Because right now, I should be working.
I should be in my office closing this deal.
I should not be taking advantage of her on the kitchen table.
Seeing her laid out amidst the chaos has destroyed everything I wanted to do and say.
Blown it all to goddam pieces.
Two days away and I come back to her, all flour-dusted innocence that makes my dick hard for reasons I can’t even explain.
She shudders when I suck each finger, tasting the delicious things she’s been creating.
And then I kiss her hands, and bite gently the mound of flesh on her palm, and then her wrist. As my teeth graze over the pulse point, her pupils dilate, and then there’s a flash of fear mixed with a hunger I know so well, before her lids close.
She’s fighting herself as much as she’s fighting me.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear it, What the fuck are you doing? This isn’t the plan. But her pulse hammers under my lips, and I can’t seem to pull away. Even when she says words I don’t care to hear.
“Kathy could come back.”
“Let her,” I murmur, bending over to kiss the delicate part where her shoulder meets her neck. “You’re my wife.”
The lie tastes bitter even as I say it. I don’t know why I’m saying that.
“We’re not married yet.”
“Doesn’t matter, you’re already mine.” I knead her breasts over her dress, loving that I make her gasp.
And ignore the fact that she’s only going to be mine for a short while. That it’s not real.
She is mine.
Until she’s not.
This is just casual. Because I can’t seem to stay away. I can’t seem to do anything else but taste my little finch inside and out.
Because she’s mine for now.
That’s why I had to skin Fogg alive. Every part of him that had touched her, hurt her, needed cleansing. I wanted him to feel her pain before I cut his jugular in two. An easy death wasn’t good enough.
No one touches my little finch but me.
I shouldn’t even touch her.
And I really meant to stay away.
But.
The memory of Fogg’s screams wasn’t satisfying me in the end.
The last two days have been a nightmare: chasing down someone who doesn’t want to be found after months of searching. I nearly got to her, but she slipped through my fingers at the local airfield, bribing one of the private aircraft owners, and flew to France. Now, where she is is anyone’s guess.
And the entire time, all I wanted to do was to come back here and check on my little songbird, but I couldn’t.
I’ve never felt so frustrated. Nothing seemed to matter anymore except coming here and doing exactly this…
And I fucking love it; the gasps she’s making, the way she succumbs to me even when she’s afraid. I’m becoming obsessed with this woman, and I don’t know how to stop.
I can’t help myself.
I need her to take the edge off.
Like an addict needing a high.
So I can feel something, anything, and without slitting someone’s throat. She’s the only thing in this house that isn’t cold and dead. The only warm, living thing that doesn’t recoil when I touch it.
I hate needing her.
So, to remind myself what this is….
A distraction fuck.
I’m not going to kiss her, not her lips. But I’ll taste everywhere else, taking my time to enjoy what I’ve been abstaining from, shoving my cock into her tight, willing hole.
Her dress is light wool and easily slips off her shoulder. I yank down her bra, revealing her nipples to be hard as bullets, her skin pebbling in the cool air of the kitchen.
She trembles when my breath warms them.
She moans, fingers tugging my hair, arching into me as I bite her softly, and then suck hard, flicking her sensitive part with my tongue.
And she chews her lip hard enough to leave marks, trying to hold back sounds she doesn’t want to make. But they escape anyway, small, desperate little whimpers that fucking undo me.
Every way she responds to me makes my cock strain for her, primed, precum coating the tip, and it takes everything I have not to hold her down and make her lick it off with that pink tongue of hers, or pound her on the kitchen counter until she breaks or the table does.
Because I’m done being a gentleman.
I kiss down her belly; her dress is now yanked to her waist. And she shivers when I glide my tongue past her belly button.
Her eyes are closed, head back, so it makes it easier.
But then her lashes flutter open, and she looks at me with those big brown, doe-eyes of hers, distrust and hurt filling them to the brim.
And I can’t fucking do it.
So I gather her up in my arms and flip her over, so that she’s not looking at me anymore, but pressing her cheek against the steel counter with her ass in the air instead.
An ass ripe for abusing.
My hand wraps around her hair and pulls her head back, allowing me to kiss the line of her jaw and grind my dick into her ass, showing her just how hard she makes me.
A taste of what’s to come.
“Troy,” she breathes out. But she doesn’t tell me to stop.
I can’t stop.
I shove up the hem of her dress. The fabric bunches in my fist, soft wool giving way easily. Her skin underneath is impossibly smooth, unmarked.
She wriggles but doesn’t stop me as I slip my hand between her legs. Christ, she’s wet. I stroke over the damp part of her cotton panties, and then ease them aside.
She’s soaked, dripping all over me.
Fuck.
Then I shove two fingers into her.
A small, shocked sound escapes her, and her whole body tenses, then slowly melts. She wasn’t expecting that.
“How does that feel?”
“A little painful…but nice.”
I bite her earlobe, and then…
“Do you need me deeper inside you?”
She nods.
I draw down her knickers, so she’s exposed for me, and then tease her slit again, stroking her clit each time, until she’s panting, clawing at the steel surface. Then I shove four fingers in hard and deep, leaving my thumb free to massage her pretty asshole.
“Troy…!” She breathes. Her little pants are cute. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“That’s not the right hole.”
I snort. “Isn’t it?”
I give another thrust and then bend down and bite her on her luscious ass cheeks. She gasps and kicks. But still she doesn’t tell me no. Her little mewls like a cat in heat tell me she’s desperate like I am.
“I don’t want you looking at that part of me.”
If she could see what I see, she’d know how fucking beautiful she is, but I can’t say it. That would give her ideas, and that wouldn’t be fair. This can’t go anywhere.
Instead, I move away from her ass, spread her legs wide, and crouch to kiss her sweet pussy until she’s writhing on the table. Every time she tries to close her legs, I push them apart. Every time she tries to get up, I press her back down and hold her there.
I’m not finished.
When my tongue darts out to lick her slit, she squeals.
“Oh God.”
“Do you know how much I’ve wanted to do this?”
“No…” she tails off. “Don’t stop.”
I lick her again, deep and slow, and she lets out a moan. The sound of it goes straight to my cock.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous. Vulnerable and trusting in a way that makes everything twist in my chest. She shouldn’t trust me. She should run. But here she is, trembling under my hands, and I’m the bastard who can’t let her go.
When she’s on the edge, shuddering at the barest touch, I straighten up, unbuckling my belt, tasting her still on my lips. “Now, I’m going to fucking break you so you can’t bake anymore. We have enough pies.”
I’m straining in my damn pants.
As I line up with her warm pussy, she sucks in a breath, darting a look over her shoulder at me. “But I’ve never—” Her voice cracks. And then there’s that terrified look as her eyes meet mine, back to fucking haunt me.
Her fingers clutch at the counter’s edge, knuckles white, like she’s trying to be brave.
Flour dust puffs around her like clouds as she breathes out.
I go still.
I’m right there, the head of my cock nudging her slick entrance. I can feel how soaking wet she is. How ready is she for me.
Just one fucking thrust.
“You’re really a virgin?”
“Yes.”
I thought it was a lie.
How could she not have…
Fuck.
Cold slices through my gut. Richard’s pristine, perfect daughter, who somehow ended up engaged to an ex-con monster, is a virgin. And I was about to fuck her over a kitchen table just to stop feeling empty for five fucking minutes.
Of all the shitty things I’ve done, doing that can’t be one of them. I’m not that much of an asshole.
Calmly, or I might combust, I shove my cock inside my pants, redo my belt, and reach for my wine.
Sage is looking at me like I’ve killed her kitten and left it for her to clean up. “So that’s it?”
“I’m not taking your virginity, Sage.” It comes out harsher than I intend.
Her voice falters. “W-why not? What’s the difference? We’re getting married in two days.”
“A fake marriage,” I grit out. Then I stalk out of the kitchen before I change my mind, ignoring how my cock feels like it’s about to snap, how blue my balls are becoming these days.
I don’t look back at her on the counter, disheveled and confused. If I do, I’ll take her just because I can. And I can’t be the man who ruins her just because I need something, anything, to fill the damn void.