Chapter 14 Jennifer
JENNIFER
Iwake in silk sheets.
The scent of bergamot and old stone fills the air.
The bed beneath me is vast, a continent of Egyptian cotton and down.
My wrists ache, a dull throb beneath the skin, but they’re clean.
Bandaged. The room is all dark wood and low light, a fireplace crackling silently behind glass. No windows. Just one heavy door.
He’s sitting in a leather armchair across the room, a crystal glass of something amber in his hand. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable, those dark eyes catching the firelight.
“You’re safe,” he says. His voice is quiet, a low hum that vibrates in the space between us.
“Safe.” I push myself up, the silk whispering against my skin. I’m wearing a man’s shirt, soft and expensive. His. “You define that differently than I do. Where are my clothes?”
“Ruined. Bloodstained. They’ve been disposed of.”
“You disposed of a prosecutor’s evidence. Add it to the list of charges.” My head is pounding, a steady drumbeat behind my eyes. “Where am I?”
“Somewhere you can’t be found.”
“By them? Or by my office?” I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the floor cold under my bare feet. “You killed five men.”
“Six,” he corrects, taking a slow sip. “The driver was waiting outside.”
“You’re a monster.”
“I’m the monster who carried you out.” He sets the glass down. “They were going to peel you apart to get to me. They were going to enjoy it.”
“And you didn’t? Enjoy it?” I take a step toward him, my body thrumming with a anger so hot it feels like clarity. “I saw you. Your eyes. Your hands.”
He stands, fluid and effortless, a predator uncoiling. “You saw what was necessary.”
“I saw the truth. The thing you hide behind the suits and the charities and the goddamn boardrooms.” I’m in front of him now, close enough to see the gold flicker deep in his pupils. “You’re not a businessman. You’re a beast.”
“And you,” he says, his gaze dropping to my mouth, “are a liability I should have left in that warehouse.”
The words are a slap. A challenge. The last thread of my control snaps.
I grab the front of his tailored shirt, my fists twisting in the fine fabric, and I kiss him.
It’s not gentle. It’s anger and adrenaline and the raw, screaming truth of what I saw him do. It’s teeth and desperation, a battle for dominance I know I can’t win. I expect him to push me away, to laugh, to put me back in my place.
He doesn’t resist.
His hands come up to frame my face, not to hold me still, but to pull me closer.
His mouth opens under mine, and he kisses me back with a hunger that matches my own, a silent concession that this, too, is a kind of violence.
The taste of him is whiskey and winter and something ancient, something wild.
I can feel the impossible strength in his hands, the careful control he’s exerting to keep from crushing me.
His control shatters. A low growl rumbles in his chest as his hands slip from my face, down my back, gripping my hips to pull me flush against him. I can feel the hard ridge of his cock straining against his trousers, a stark contrast to the soft cotton of his shirt I’m wearing.
He tears the shirt open, buttons scattering across the stone floor like hailstones.
His mouth leaves mine to travel down my neck, his teeth grazing my collarbone before his tongue soothes the spot.
His hands are everywhere, cupping my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples until they’re hard peaks.
“I need to be inside you.” The words are rough, stripped bare of all pretense.
He lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me back to the bed.
He lays me down amidst the ruined silk, his weight settling over me, a delicious pressure.
He fumbles with his belt, his usual grace gone, replaced by a raw, urgent need.
He pushes his trousers and briefs down just enough to free himself.
His cock is thick and hard in his hand. He guides himself to my entrance, the head pressing against me. He pauses, his head resting against mine, his breath hot on my lips.
“Jennifer.”
“Yes.”
He pushes into my pussy in one smooth, relentless stroke, filling me completely. A sharp, breathless cry is torn from my throat. He stills, buried deep, letting me adjust to the overwhelming stretch.
Then he moves.
He sets a punishing rhythm from the start, each thrust a hard, driving claim.
The bedframe groans in protest. I claw at his back, my nails digging into the muscles working beneath his skin.
He shifts, hooking one of my legs over his arm, opening me up wider, sinking deeper.
The angle is exquisite, a relentless friction that has me arching off the bed.
He lowers his lips to my breast, sucking hard, his tongue flicking over my nipple. The dual sensation is too much, a coil of pleasure tightening low in my belly. I’m already close, the adrenaline and the sheer physicality of him pushing me toward the edge.
“Don’t stop,” I pant, my voice ragged. “God, don’t you dare stop.”
He’s moving inside me with a rhythm that’s turning my bones to liquid, a deep, steady pulse that’s building a fire in my core.
I’m clutching at his shoulders, my breath coming in ragged gasps that match his thrusts.
Just as I feel that perfect, tightening coil about to snap, he goes perfectly, utterly still.
A frustrated groan escapes me. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. He just pulls out of me, the sudden emptiness a shock. Before I can protest, his hands are on my hips. He slides down the bed, his breath warm on my inner thigh. His gaze is locked on me, intense and unwavering.
“Malek…”
His name is a plea on my lips. He answers it by lowering his mouth to my pussy.
His tongue is flat and hot, a slow, deliberate stroke from my entrance all the way up to my clit.
I jolt, a sharp cry tearing from my throat.
He holds my hips down, pinning me gently as he does it again.
And again. He’s not rushing. He’s exploring me with a focused reverence, learning the shape and taste of me.
He finds my clit and circles it with the very tip of his tongue, a soft, maddening pressure.
I’m writhing, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, not to push him away but to hold on. “Please.”
He hums against me, the vibration shooting straight through my nerves.
He closes his lips around my clit and sucks, gently at first, then with more pressure.
His tongue flicks over the sensitive spot again and again, a relentless, perfect rhythm.
One of his hands slips down, two fingers sliding into my pussy, curling upward.
The combination is devastating. The coil inside me winds tighter, tighter, pulled taut by his mouth and his fingers.
My back arches off the bed, a silent scream locked in my throat.
The pleasure crests, breaks, and shatters through me in a wave of pure, blinding white.
I cry out, my body shaking uncontrollably as he works me through it, his touch gentling until the last tremor subsides.
He moves back up my body, his skin hot against mine. His cock, still hard and slick from my own wetness, presses against my thigh. He kisses me, and I can taste myself on his lips, a dark, intimate flavor.
“Again,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice thick with a need that mirrors my own.
I nod, my breath catching as he guides himself back to my entrance. He pushes inside, and this time there’s no resistance, just the perfect, full stretch of him. He groans, a raw, guttural sound that vibrates through my chest.
He starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that feels less like a claiming and more like a conversation. His hands slide under me, cupping my ass, tilting my hips to take him even deeper. Each thrust is a deliberate, measured thing, a world away from the frantic energy of before.
He shifts his weight, bracing himself on one arm so his other hand can roam. He traces the line of my jaw, my throat, before his palm slides down to cup my breast. His thumb strokes my nipple, and a fresh wave of heat floods my core.
His pace begins to quicken, the slow, deep strokes turning more urgent. The headboard starts a soft, rhythmic thud against the wall. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot and ragged on my skin.
“I’m close,” he grits out, the words strained.
His thrusts become shorter, harder, losing their rhythm as he chases his release. I hold him tighter, my own body tightening around him, pulling him over the edge with me.
He lets out a sharp, choked cry, his entire body going rigid above me. I feel the hot pulse of his come deep inside me, a final, shuddering claim. He collapses onto me, his full weight a warm, heavy comfort, his breath slowing against my neck.
He rolls off after a moment, pulling me against his side. My limbs feel like lead, my mind blissfully empty. The last thing I feel is his lips, soft against my temple, before the exhaustion pulls me under into a deep, dreamless sleep.