Chapter 13 #2
Asher fills the doorway, broad shoulders framed in the golden boutique light, a sleek black paper bag dangling from one hand. His face is carved into stillness, unreadable—but his eyes give him away. Those sharp, icy-grey eyes drag over me slow and merciless.
They start at the curve of my thighs where the stockings bite into skin, climb higher over the pleated leather skirt hugging my hips, linger at the swell of my breasts pushed high by the corset until they look obscene.
Then up—higher still—to the thin line of the choker at my throat, snug like a brand, before finally locking on my face.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches. Like a predator staring down its first meal after years of starving.
Heat scorches every inch of me under his gaze. The corset feels tighter, the stockings like shackles, the ring on my finger suddenly heavy. My chest rises and falls too quickly, and for a heartbeat, I swear he can hear it.
I swallow, caught between defiance and something else entirely, pinned in place by the steel of his stare. “Asher,” I manage, my voice lower than I mean it to be. “Where’s Rosa?”
“She got held up at the front,” he says matter-of-factly, eyes never leaving mine. Then, flat, clipped: “What are you wearing?”
“A dress.”
His mouth twitches—not a smile, not anything soft. “I see that.”
I step forward, reaching for the bag. “Is that the underwear?”
He lifts it slightly, still watching me. “Yeah.”
I extend my hand. “Can I have it?”
Instead of handing it over, his free arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. My breath stutters at the sudden heat of him, the iron grip.
“After I cash in my order.”
My brows knit. “Cash in your order?”
“I put your shoes on.” His voice is even, but the weight behind it makes my stomach clench.
The memory flickers—his earlier words about orders, about control. I push against his chest with a scoff, trying to shake the electric charge rolling between us. “Again, why is being a gentleman so hard for you?”
“It’s not in my nature.” His eyes burn down into mine, steady, merciless.
“Oh yeah? Then what is?”
His mouth dips closer to my ear, his breath cutting sharp against my skin. “Open your mouth.”
I blink. “What?”
His jaw tightens, and the command comes out colder this time. “Open your mouth.”
I blink, the command so raw, so utterly unexpected, it short-circuited my bravado. My lips part on a shocked gasp, to tell him to fuck off, but that was all the invitation he needed.
His thumb enters my mouth, pressing against my lower lip before sliding past my teeth. The pad of his thumb is rough against my tongue, a startling contrast to the soft, intimate inside of my mouth. The taste of him was clean, faintly tangy with salt, and undeniably, unbearably masculine.
“Don’t bite,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through his hand and into me.
His other arm snaked around my waist, pulling me flush against the hard lines of his body, pinning me to the cool mirror at my back.
The chill of the glass seeps through the satin of my dress, a shivering counterpoint to the heat exploding inside me. “Now suck.”
A bratty retort died in my throat, replaced by the overwhelming reality of his thumb on my tongue.
My pride warred with a dark, pulsing curiosity.
Who does he think he is? But a deeper, more primal part of me was already obeying, my tongue curling, my lips closing around the intrusion, applying a gentle, hesitant pressure.
A dark, approving sound escaped him. “Good girl. You like that, don’t you, Valentina? Having me in your mouth? You wish it was my cock don’t you?”
I shake my head, a weak, pathetic denial, but the hot flush creeping up my chest betrays me. My eyes, wide and locked on his, must have given everything away.
“Don’t lie to me, Toy,” he says, not unkindly, but with a certainty that feels like a brand.
“A beautiful, defiant little brat who’s been begging for this since you walked in here and challenged me.
” He eases his thumb from my mouth with a soft, wet pop.
“But you don’t want a gentleman. You want to know what my nature really is. ”
Before I can form a coherent thought, his hands are on the top of my strapless corset. His fingers hook into the crimson satin and lace. In one ruthless, fluid motion, he yanks it down, exposing me to the cold air and his burning gaze.
My breath hitches. My nipples, already hardened pebbles from his proximity, tighten into aching points. Oh god. Is this what sex is about? Am I going to lose my fucking virginity to this man in a dressing toom?
His eyes darken, pure hunger eclipsing the cool mercilessness. “Look at you.” He doesn’t touch me, just lets his gaze roam over my bare skin, and yet, it feels more intimate than any caress. “Perfect little fuck toy. With perfect little nipples all hard and ready for me.”
Then he bends his head.
His mouth is hot and devastatingly soft as it closes over one taut peak.
A sharp, electric jolt of pure pleasure-pain shoots straight to my core, making my knees buckle.
His arm around my waist is the only thing holding me up.
He doesn’t just suckle; he worships, his tongue laving, circling, flicking with maddening precision until whimpers fall from my lips.
Yes. There. Right there.
I arch into his mouth, my head falling back against the mirror with a soft thud, my fingers run along the nape of hid neck —not to pull him away, but to hold him there. The world narrows to the wet, pulling heat of his mouth on my breast and the coarse texture of his hair between my fingers.
Just as the sensation threatens to overwhelm me, I feel his hand.
It slides from my waist, down over the curve of my hip, a slow, possessive journey.
My ruffled skirt is no barrier. His palm is scalding as it smooths up my outer thigh, pushing the fabric with it.
The calluses on his fingers scrape deliciously against my sensitive skin, a promise of roughness to come.
His hand goes higher, over my hip, his thumb stroking lazy circles on the bare skin of my stomach. My breath comes in ragged pants, my entire being focused on the path of that hand. Please. Please.
His mouth leaves my breast with a final, tender bite that rips a cry from me, and he straightens to look at me. His eyes are black with desire, his lips wet from me. He doesn’t speak. He just holds my gaze as his fingers trail down my abdomen.
I stop breathing.
His touch is sure, seeking, and then… there. His fingers slide through my slick heat, and a choked moan is torn from me. I am drenched, utterly ready for him. The blunt tip of his middle finger circles my clit once, twice—a teasing, torturous touch that makes my hips jerk uncontrollably.
“So responsive,” he breathes against my lips. “So wet for me. Is this what your bratty little attitude was hiding?”
I can’t answer. I can only gasp as he pushes one long, thick finger inside me.
A full-body shudder wracks me. The stretch is exquisite, a perfect, filling pressure.
He holds it there for a moment, letting me feel every inch of him, letting my body clutch tight around him.
Then he begins to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm, in and out, his palm rubbing against my clit with every thrust.
“Look,” he commands, his voice rough.
My eyes, which had squeezed shut, flutter open. He’s watching me, but then he tilts his head toward the mirror. I turn mine.
The sight punches the air from my lungs.
There I am—pinned against the wall, my corset shoved down around my waist, my breasts flushed and exposed, my skirt rucked up around my hips.
And him, still fully clothed, his arm banded tight around me, his hand working between my legs—a study in controlled domination.
My face in the glass is almost unrecognizable: frantic pleasure painted across every line, lips swollen, eyes glazed.
“Watch yourself fall apart for me,” he growls in my ear. His thrusts quicken, his finger curling inside me, finding that devastating spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
The coiling tension in my belly snaps. A raw, guttural sound I don’t recognize rips from my throat as the orgasm crashes over me. My vision blanks white. My body convulses around his finger, milking him, clenching again and again as wave after wave of mindless ecstasy tears through me.
He holds me there, relentless, dragging every last shuddering spasm out until I’m boneless.
Sensation echoes through me, fading tremors in my limbs.
I’m liquid and heavy, kept upright only by his solid frame and the unyielding wall at my back.
The cool partition shocks against my fever-hot skin, a stark reminder of how utterly undone I am in his hands.
Asher slowly withdraws his hand, the movement eliciting a soft, oversensitive gasp from me. He brings his glistening fingers to his lips, his darkened eyes holding mine and slowly, deliberately, sucks them clean.
“I still have a couple more orders to go, Toy,” Asher whispers into my hair, and I shiver at his voice. “I’ll make sure to cash in on them later.”
I am too boneless. Too flustered to respond, but when he takes a step away from me I almost chase his heat.
“Now, go put on something presentable. I can’t have you tempting half of Dallas.” Asher growls, and I shiver at the sound.
How in the hell did I let this happen?
The thought slams into me the second the door clicks shut behind him. My knees still wobble, my skin still tingles, and every inch of me feels branded. By him. By Asher. The one man who’s supposed to be cold, mechanical, detached, untouchable.