Chapter 7 #2
It’s rough and hot and hungry, a devouring, angry kiss.
His teeth scrape against my lips, prying me open for his tongue, and he tastes like vodka.
His hand on my jaw holds me there, his mouth against mine, and his other hand goes to my hip, gripping me hard enough to bruise as he plunders my mouth like it was made for him to take.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. He’s hot and vicious and god, I want him like I’ve never wanted anything, anyone, else.
I can’t ever remember anyone making me feel like this, and I hate him for it a little, for being the one to arouse all of this in me when no one else ever has.
When I should never, ever want a man like him.
When it destroys everything that I’ve ever believed about myself and who I am when it comes to desire and romance and all the fantasies I have about both.
I’ve never fantasized about a man like him, and I can’t get enough of him.
It’s wrong, and it’s so fucking hot.
“What about this?” he growls against my mouth as he slides his hand up from my hip, under my sweater, over my ribs. I’m only wearing a thin lace bralette under the sweater, and when my breast fills his palm, I can feel every rough inch of it over my soft flesh, against my peaked nipple.
I can’t answer. His tongue licks into my mouth again, claiming me, his hand and his lips anchoring me to him. The rest of his body is held apart, as if he knows if he touches me with the rest of him we’ll both go up in flames.
I make a sound—half gasp, half moan—and he swallows it, deepening the kiss. His hand tightens in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it, and I let him take control. I let him have this.
Because he needs it. I can feel it in the desperation of his kiss, in the way his fingers dig against my breast like he's afraid I'll disappear if he doesn't hold on tight enough.
My back is pressed against the library shelf.
I can feel the books shifting behind me, smell leather and paper, wood polish, all beneath the scent of his smoky cologne and the tang of his sweat.
His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, down my neck.
I tilt my head back, giving him access, and he takes it, his teeth scraping against sensitive skin, his tongue soothing the sting.
Each touch sending sparks of sensation through my entire body.
"This is a mistake," he murmurs against my throat. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't pull away. “A good man would stop.”
His thumb rolls over my nipple, fingers giving my breast one last squeeze before his palm slides down my flat stomach, his fingertips grazing the divots of muscle from all that yoga and Pilates.
He touches me like he’s mapping my body, memorizing the lines of it so he can imagine it later.
The thought of that, of him with his cock in his hand while he thinks about me, makes my entire body go tight and hot.
His hands on me… on my stomach, my jaw, sliding down to the edge of my leggings, is claiming and possessive. Like he's marking territory he has no right to claim.
I arch into it anyway.
“Liesl.” He growls my name and I can feel how wet I am from the sound of it. “Would a good man do this?”
His teeth scrape against my lower lip as his fingers slide beneath the waist of my leggings, over the thin panties beneath.
He cups me over them, first, and I gasp at just the pressure of his hand.
The heel of it presses over my clit, right where I need him and can’t get enough from just this.
His first two fingers press against my folds, curling as if to thrust into me, only the thin fabric stopping them.
I feel my face heat; my panties are soaked through, and I know he can feel it.
The groan that spills from his lips tells me exactly that. I should try to fight him off, pull away, remember that he's dangerous and I'm his captive and this is wrong on every level.
But all I feel is heat and want, the desperate need for more. This is insane. We're in his library and he has blood under his fingernails and I'm supposed to be his prisoner, not this—whatever this is.
I don’t try to make him stop.
Instead, I give that anger from earlier an outlet, and I bite him back.
I sink my teeth into his lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to sting.
He jerks with surprise, then growls, a low, lustful sound that turns my blood molten as he jerks my panties to one side and unceremoniously drives his first two fingers into me, hooking me on his hand as he smiles cruelly against my mouth.
“I’m not a good man,” he murmurs. “But you’re not as good of a girl as you think you are, ptitsa.”
I tense at that, but his fingers curl deeper inside of me, moving, and I feel unable to do anything but sink against the shelves, gasping, my toes curling against the hardwood floor as his mouth hovers against mine.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're so wet."
My face is flushed hot with embarrassment and lust and need. I grab onto his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex as his fingers move in slow circles, teasing, building, finding the rhythm that makes my breath catch and my hips move against his hand seeking more.
"Look at me," he commands, as his thumb finds my clit and I whimper, hardly able to breathe. “Look at me, printsessa. Watch while this bad man makes you come.”
His fingers slide in and out of me, curling in that perfect rhythm that no one else has ever found so well. "I want to watch you come apart," he purrs, his accent so thick that I have to strain to understand him. "Want to see what you look like when you lose control."
His fingers move faster, harder. He finds that perfect spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes.
It feels so good, better than I ever imagined this could.
And he hasn’t touched himself. Hasn’t tried to fuck me or put me on my knees.
It’s as if this is everything he needs right now, just to have me under his power, caught on his fingers and mewling for him as he pushes me closer and closer to an orgasm.
I try to stay quiet, to maintain some semblance of control, but it's impossible. Not when he's touching me like this, when every nerve ending in my body is on fire. A moan escapes, and then another. I bite my lip trying to hold them back, but he notices.
"Don't," he says roughly. "Let me hear you."
His thumb works my clit faster. It’s too much, and just right, all at the same time.
I’m so close, soaking his hand, breathless and desperate to come.
Nothing can stop this now, not someone coming in, not me remembering who he is and what he’s done.
I’m too far gone. I’d let him finger me in front of all his guards right now if he’d just make me come.
I cry out as I feel my muscles winding tight, my nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, and he groans.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Let go."
I'm close. So close. The tension building low in my belly is almost unbearable. My head falls back against the bookshelf. My entire body is trembling with the effort of holding on.
"Come for me," he says. It's not a request. It's a command.
And I obey. As if his voice is all I need, his demands, my body obeys with a devastating climax.
The orgasm hits like a wave, crashing over me with an intensity that makes my vision white out. My legs give out completely. I would collapse if he wasn't holding me up, his hand still on my jaw, his hand still between my legs working me through it.
I hear myself making sounds—gasps and moans and his name over and over—but I can't stop. I can't control it. I can only ride it out until the waves finally start to subside.
When I can breathe again, I open my eyes.
He's watching me. His expression is raw and hungry, like watching me come apart made him all the more ravenous for me.
He withdraws his hand slowly. I'm still trembling, still trying to catch my breath, as he holds up his hand between us, letting me see my wetness soaking his fingers, webbing between them. Fingers still covered in some other man’s blood.
And then he brings his hand to his mouth, my arousal and someone’s blood coating his fingers. I stare at his hand, the dried blood under his nails, the split knuckles, the evidence of violence mixing with the evidence of what we just did.
His eyes never leave mine as he drags his fingers over his lips, between his mouth and mine, his tongue darting out to lick them clean. He licks all of me off of them, a low groan rippling from his chest as he tastes me for the first time.
It's primal. Raw. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. He holds my gaze the entire time, watching my reaction. Daring me to look away.
But I can’t. I don’t. I feel my breath stuttering in my lungs as he licks the last of me away from his fingers, and then reaches down, taking my hand and pressing my palm against the hard length of him straining against his pants.
"Feel what you do to me," he says roughly. “Feel how fucking hard I am, pevchaya ptitsa.” He moves my hand along his length, his teeth clenched. “Still think I’m good, deep down?”
I can feel how hard he is, straining against the fabric. How big. He’s bigger than any man I’ve ever had before, and as he rubs my palm along him, I feel something else. Is he… pierced?
My face flames hot. I want to pull away, and I also want to explore him. I want to slide him out and see what he looks like.
I feel him pulse against my touch. I can feel the evidence of how much he wants this.
My fingers curl around him through his pants. He makes a sound that’s half groan, half growl, and his hips push forward into my hand.
For a moment we just stand there—his hand over mine, my palm against him, both of us breathing hard. Both of us on the edge of something we can't take back.
“It depends,” I whisper, my voice coming out high and breathless. His blue gaze, hot now instead of icy, locks onto mine.