“Don’t pity me, Matias.” She rolled her shoulders against the mattress, stretched her fingers to grip the bottom edge of the wooden headboard, and forced her gaze to his. “It’s the wrong feeling for what’s happening here.”
The muscles in his face tightened, all softness gone. “Pity is not what I’m feeling right now.”
He dipped his head between her legs and inhaled deeply. His fingers clamped tighter around the backs of her thighs as he smelled her, dragged his nose through her folds, then buried his mouth.
She arched her back, stunned by the assault of sensations. It took several seconds for her lower body to rouse, but when it did, her pussy throbbed hard and greedily, soaking her with a rush of arousal.
He moaned against her cunt, his tongue strong and firm as it lapped and swirled and dipped inside.
Shame coiled in her belly, and a whimper escaped her lips. This wasn’t supposed to feel good. It was wrong, sick, fucked up in the worst way possible.
His eyes stayed on her, his kiss aggressive, frantic, and so damn sexual. Then his fingers joined in, stabbing, curling, and stealing her air. His muscled shoulders contracted with his frenzied movements, pressing against the backs of her legs as he bit and sucked her delicate flesh.
Each lick was a rasping whisper, liquefying everything in its path as it penetrated deep, coaxing and seducing the dark cravings inside her. She didn’t want this. She didn’t. Yet her entire body hummed with pleasure. It had never been this good. Ever. Not when he was younger, not with anyone, and she despised him most of all for that.
His groaning kiss might’ve felt like heaven, but his demon tongue was an enticement to hell. This was worse than him fucking her dry. He was turning her body against her, using their familiar intimacy to make her wet and twist her up.
Arms above her head, legs spread, and nipples erect in the lazy breeze from the ceiling fan, her traitorous body melted beneath the sensual slide of his mouth. She focused on the fan blades, watching them go round and round—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—in rhythm with her heart and the throb against his tongue.
Eventually, his lashes lowered, concealing the predatory glow in his eyes. She found relief in that, until his fingers strummed against her thigh, tightening and loosening, as if he were trying to hide the shaking. He used to do that when they were teenagers, quaking and twitching his hands when he was overly excited and trying not to come.
Her chest constricted. He was a rancid poison, injecting himself into her system. Circulating through her blood. Breaking her down and rotting her from the inside out.
But the poison thinned as she climbed. He floated her up and halfway down again. The smell of his rotten intent still lingered, but underneath, she tasted ecstasy. Because he’d brought her to the cliff, and though she fought against the fall, his tongue was too talented, knew her body too well, and he pushed her over.
She moaned as blissful shocks burst across her nerve endings, spreading outward, trembling her legs, and wiping her mind. She spun through a vortex of unimaginable pleasure where she didn’t need air or legs or wings, because he was there, catching her, holding her, and carrying her through the haze. He was with her, protecting. Mine.
Her arms twisted in the ropes as she clung to the lingering sensations, quivering and gasping to catch her breath.
When she finally came down, the weight of what just happened pressed against her chest.
He’d made her come, and it left her feeling more alive than she’d ever felt in her life.
And raw. So fucking raw it hurt in places she couldn’t identify or reach.
Why hadn’t he just raped her without all the foreplay and eye contact? He could’ve fucked her, gotten off on whatever sick shit he was into, then left her the fuck alone to lick her wounds. She could survive physical pain. But this…this godawful ache inside her? She didn’t even know where to start.
“How long has it been?” He kissed the hood of her clit and leaned up on his elbows.
“How long for what?” she snapped.
“Since someone ate your pussy.”
“A week ago.” She considered leaving it at that, but since he wanted to stick his fucking nose in her business… “Larry McGregor had skills.”
“What?” he bellowed and shot up off the bed, his face contorted and fiery red. He swung an arm out and sent the lamp crashing to the floor, spinning the glowing light through the room. “You fucked that worthless son of a bitch?”
“No.” Heart thundering, she slammed her legs together and scooted toward the headboard. “I let him go down on me so I could—” Shit. She’d said too much.
“So you could put him in a chokehold,” he said, voice cold and deadly calm. “Same thing you just tried on me.”
Technically, it was a different chokehold, but she wasn’t about to point that out.
He stood with his back to her, the brawn of his ass hard and flexed like a gladiator preparing for battle. She’d seen his nude body so many times, but that was before. This body was so much bigger, his thighs cut and dusted with dark hair, his waist narrow and widening into defined shoulders, and his spine straight and confident.
He was power and danger and persuasion, and she was a quivering blob tied to his bed.
Scrubbing a hand over his head, he dragged it down his face, his profile angled downward as he glared at the glowing exposed bulb on the broken lamp. The heave of his back slowed, and he seemed to be reigning in his temper.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his cock still hard and jutting upward as he shifted his gaze to her. “When was the last time you
