“No.” Her eyes sparked with his. “You’re being ridiculous.” She turned away and stormed off at the same time, huffing as she crossed the room towards the windows. “You have history with this Goran guy, obviously. And I’m sorry for that. But you asked me to come to the ball. You got talking to ministers and left me on my own. You sent me this dress and you invited all the guests. All I did was turn up, wear this, and be polite to a man who, frankly, gave me the creeps. So? What’s your problem?”
“My problem,” he said with a quietness that was far more dangerous than if he roared the palace down, “Is that I cannot look at you without imagining him touching you and all I can think of is making love to you until you promise me you will never let that happen.”
She gasped, the fierce, desperate plea in his words spearing straight into her heart, making her quiver.
“I didn’t say more than ten words to him,” she whispered.
But Raffa strode across the room, and as he approached, she sucked in a harsh breath yet it still didn’t reach her lungs.
“You are mine,” he said simply, and his lips crushed to hers, his tongue pushing into her mouth, his body hard against hers.
“Say you are mine,” he grunted, his fingers reaching around and finding the zip to her dress.
He needed to hear the words; he needed to hear her say that his possession of her was absolute.
“He is no one to me,” she murmured into his mouth, but that wasn’t enough.
With a growl, he spun her around, impatient, his fingers pulling the zip of her dress all the way down so she wore only a lace thong.
“Tell me you want this,” he said desperately, the words graveled, as his hands ran over her body, finding her naked breasts and palming them, feeling their weight, staring at her beauty as though he’d never before seen a woman’s naked form. “Tell me you want me.”
“You know I do,” she muttered, but there was anger in her eyes, anger at the admission, anger at his dominance over her. She tilted her head back, and he saw the way she was quivering, he knew what he was doing to her, but it still wasn’t enough. He needed her to beg him again and again, he needed to know beyond any doubt that her world began and ended with him.
Why? Why did he care? He had never been so driven by an animalistic urge to make a woman his in every fundamental way, but now, on this night, ancient forces were pushing him to claim her.
He pulled her to him and lifted her in one motion, wrapping her legs around his waist as he carried her to the bed where he dropped her backwards so she sprawled beneath him. She glared at him, her breath ragged, her breasts heaving with each push of her lungs. But he didn’t give her time to recover. He pulled at her underpants, removing them before dispensing swiftly with his own clothing, bringing his naked body over hers.
When he kissed her, it was a mark of possession that was answered by his body’s hard push into her womanhood. There was no preamble, no foreplay, just this. He thrust into her with all that he was, crying out as her sweet warmth enveloped him, as muscles claimed him, reassured him, and then his mouth dragged down her body, finding a nipple and flicking it with his tongue.
She writhed beneath him and when she whimpered he lifted his eyes to her face, watching as pleasure pulled her apart at the seams. Watching as she fell apart in his arms, feeling her muscles squeeze him, her body take him, feeling her react to him in a way that should have been reassurance enough.
But it wasn’t.
He needed more. He needed her to give him something but he didn’t know what.
While waves of pleasure still rocked her to the core, while she trembled beneath him, and her body was ravaged by the waves of her desire, he pulled out of her and dragged his mouth to her sensitive heat, lashing her with his tongue until she was crying out, loud, shrill, desperate. He was driving her to the brink too soon after she’d already orgasmed, while the after effects were still ravaging her system, but he didn’t care.
She was his, and he would make sure she understood that. He slid a single finger inside her tight warmth and she bucked against his mouth. Her fingers came to his hair, tangling in it, pulling it loose, dragging it from his head and then she came again, so that he felt her pulse, tasted her pleasure, and knew her to be carried away by what they had shared.
But still he wanted more.
He brought his weight down on top of her and thrust into her once more, and felt his own seed begin to spill. He held himself back, though, watching her as he shifted his weight, as his coarse chest brushed against her soft, womanly curves, as she pushed up and claimed his lips with hers. And then her hands were on his chest, pushing him, and something like panic filled Raff
a – panic that she was going to end this. That she hadn’t wanted what he did, that he’d been wrong.
And maybe he had, because when she straddled him and took him inside, she glared at him with the force of rage he hadn’t known her capable of. “I hate you for doing this to me,” she said thickly, but she moved her hips with frantic need, pumping him, making him almost incoherent with how good she felt, how right this was.
But he wouldn’t let her control this or him. His fingers dug into her hips and he slowed her down with ease. She was tiny and he was strong. He held her low on his shaft and his eyes bore into hers. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“Screw you,” she muttered, trying to move her hips, and he knew she needed to feel more of him, to feel him move. He knew pleasure was once again knocking at her door, and he held the key to opening it.
His smile was tight, his own grip on the situation spiraling way out of control. “I am.”
“Jerk.” She groaned when he pumped himself inside her, just once, just enough to remind her what this was.
“You are mine. Whenever I want you, however I say. You are mine. Tell me. Say it.”
And when she was quiet, he rolled his hips so she felt the gossamer promise of what he would give her if only she’d agree.