Chapter 15 Reyna #3
Inhaling sharply, I squeeze my legs together, knocking his knee in the process.
“You can’t touch me anymore.” If he does, I’ll fall too far, too fast.
“I won’t,” he promises.
We both need a line between us.
I swallow, focusing on him to check that he’s not about to shift gears on me again. There’s a heavy pause before I do as he asks, cautiously raising my knee-high boot up into his waiting hand. He rests my heel against his knee, and his hand slides up my calf to the top of the boot.
Right about now, I’m wishing we never made the rule. I’d kill to feel his skin against mine.
Green eyes stay fixed on me as he leisurely glides the zipper down, one hand kept firmly beneath the back of my knee. Achingly close to touching me. Painfully near the invisible line in the sand that’s supposed to stop me from losing it.
We haven’t done anything, and I’m already panting. He hasn’t touched me, and I already know I’ll never be the same.
He sets the boot beside the couch. The muscles in my stomach coil tighter with each inch he unzips, and my body melts as he carefully places my foot on the armrest. The same ritual is repeated with my other boot, and when he moves my leg to the side, the hem of my dress falls to my hips to give him a clear view of my black cotton panties.
It peeks through the tights. Blending into the lace to paint a pretty picture just for him—and a pretty picture it must be, because his eyes turn ravenous when he sees it.
Time seems to pause. He does nothing but stare at me.
Gaze darting from my core, to my chest, to my face, then back like he can’t decide which part of me he’s going to consume first.
This is nothing like all the other times I’ve had sex. They’ve never held even a modicum of the heat burning between us and in my veins. I didn’t even know it was possible to feel like this.
“Take your tights off.”
My throat constricts. It feels second nature to comply even though our relationship has been built on resistance. I lift my hips to shimmy the thin material down, but he stops me before I make it past my thighs.
“Slowly.”
Blood roars in my ears. I take a deep breath. Hesitantly, I hook my thumbs into the band and ease the material down my legs so he catches every inch of skin that I’m feeding him.
Maddox swipes a hand over his mouth, runs it through his hair, down his face, then curls his fingers into a fist before pressing it back against his lips.
He’s regretting the rule too.
I’m not a prude; I’m just a little inexperienced. Sure, I’ve had boyfriends I’ve done all sorts of stuff with. The classic lights off, no sound, lackluster sexscapades. The type where I’d go home to finish the job because I was making a grocery list while they got off.
Something tells me that there won’t be anything like it with Maddox.
Our harsh breaths mingle in the air between us. The chill from the buttery leather couch kisses my skin. It’s another sensation that sets sparks flying through me. He takes the pair of tights from me, leaving me in my dress and saturated panties. Then the seconds tick by.
He’s just staring. Concentrating on every detail of my body.
My chest tightens while Maddox inspects my ink.
He traces the lines of my tattoos with his eyes.
There’s a snake wrapped around a scythe and a crescent moon on one thigh, a giant chrysanthemum on the other, as well as a dagger going through a skull.
On my shin, creeping up around the side of my knee, are pink peonies with thick black lines. More are hidden beneath my dress.
My stomach hollows when I follow his line of sight to the scars on my thighs. The mortification tastes like acid in my throat. How could I forget about those?
In my teenage years, I had issues accepting why Dad didn’t want me. Mom assured me it was because of his work, but I didn’t believe it. The only logical conclusion I could reach was that I wasn’t good enough.
Maybe if I got better grades, he’d stay. Maybe if I made better films, he’d visit more than once a year. Maybe if I could have been the perfect daughter, my family wouldn’t have been broken. Mom would have been happier with the love of her life.
It was my fault. That’s what I told myself.
Then I told myself that if it was bad enough—if I was bad enough—he’d come home. He’d heal me. None of that happened. So I became angry instead.
I did it for attention, yes. But I also did it because I wanted control over circumstances I couldn’t have control over.
For a second—one painful second, I worry Maddox will think I’m not enough either.
Anger flares in his eyes as he continues staring.
I’ve never been ashamed of the scars or felt the need to explain.
Yet Maddox is looking at me like he has a string of colorful words ready to lash out at me.
I’m just about to put my legs down and cover myself with my dress so I can yell at him when he tears me apart.
“Those bloody legs,” he murmurs to himself, so quiet I almost don’t hear. “Perfect.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him to repeat himself. There’s no way I heard him correctly. I’m wearing my baggage on my skin, and he’s looking at me like I’m nothing short of beautiful.
“Panties. Off. Now.”
I watch him, second-guessing if he meant it. The doubt evaporates when my eyes fall to the sizable tent in his pants, and the pained expression on his face. I’m the cause of his suffering. However bereft I feel, this is the gravest torture for him. It’s empowering.
My core flutters with need. This time, I’m slow without being told.
My attention is fixed on him as I languidly glide the black material down my thighs.
There’s a little black bow on it and lace trim that flares from my hips.
Innocent yet sultry. The perfect juxtaposition to how I feel at this moment.
I loop it out from one leg to let the garment dangle from the other that’s balancing on the armrest of his chair, and I swear he stops breathing. With more confidence than I should have, I tuck my heel up closer to my hip, baring every vulnerable inch of me for him to see.
My heart stops beating as I wait for a reaction.
He stares.
And stares.
And stares.
Then finally, something.
Maddox’s lips part. Lost. Mesmerized. Frozen.
“Art,” I hear him whisper.
I’m sitting on my professor’s couch, naked from the waist down, with my legs balancing on his armchair, and he’s looking at me like he’s found religion.
He shakes his head in disbelief, going to the edge of the seat like he’s fighting a battle to stop himself from touching me. “So fucking beautiful,” he rasps, gripping the chair.
Power thrums through my veins. I’m practically vibrating from it. I’m bringing him to his knees without saying a word.
“Look how wet you are for me, love,” he says in awe.
Love.
It’s the third time he’s called me that. I could get used to it.
Apprehension skitters through my bones as I trail my fingers down the inner seam of my thighs. The pattern of his breathing changes, turning short and sharp, worsening when I reach the juncture of my thighs.
Electricity zaps through my body when I brush my fingers against the oversensitive bundle of nerves. Streaks of white make my eyes flutter closed as I stifle a whimper.
“No. Eyes on me.” His voice is gruff like he just woke up.
My gaze collides with his. Unable to help myself, I do another pass against my clit, and my hips buck at the contact.
It’s enrapturing watching his blown-out pupils focus on every touch.
I’ve never considered myself a sadist. Nor much of a masochist, for that matter.
But seeing him pained by having to keep his hands to himself is awakening a sinister part of me.
It spurs me on, fueling me with the courage I need to add more pressure and strum my clit the way I like to in the dead of night.
My head drops back against the couch as the pleasure amplifies. I’ve never had an audience before, and I’m finding I rather like the dirtiness of it. So long as it’s Maddox watching me.
His eyes track the beads of wetness trickling down my thigh.
“You’ve made a pretty mess of my couch.”
I hiccup on a groan at the next pass over my clit.
The frills of my bra peek above the curve of my neckline, and he scowls at it like it’s a personal offense. Reaching forward, he undoes the tie holding the top half of my dress together. The silky material slips away to give him an unobstructed view of my black bralette.
A lock of brown hair falls onto his forehead from the tousled mess his hand caused. The tendons in his forearms strain with the force of his hold on the armrest, and I let out my first strangled moan.
The sound breaks him. That’s the only way to describe how he collapses forward, elbows on his knees as if he only just caught himself from breaking the barrier we’ve placed.
“You drive me fucking insane, Reyna.”
Reyna.
The jade in his irises twists into black with his guttural snarl. It’s like he can’t decide whether he wants to kill me or fuck me into the sofa. That unhinged look has my muscles contract and stretch, and I can’t help sliding two fingers into my pussy. A shudder works through me.