His hand moved against her, inside her, as he moved behind her. The dual assault coiled the heat tighter and tighter into her belly, her spine tingling, arching, and pulsing with electric sparks of pleasure as she bit her lip to keep her pants contained.
Before she could question it or stop herself, Morana slipped a hand behind her, cupping him through the fabric of his jeans. She squeezed him hard as he cursed into her ear, his fingers speeding up impossibly inside her.
“Not – fucking – here.”
He gave her clit one rub, then another right before he pinched it hard, and simultaneously covered her mouth with the other hand. Muffling her noises like before, he pushed her over the edge as she came all over his fingers, panting loudly, her breasts heaving. Every single beat of her heart throbbed everywhere in her body.
She throbbed. She pulsed. She clenched. She quivered.
His fingers remained inside her for a few moments, milking out her orgasm as much as they could before he pulled his fingers out of her pants, wiping them over his jeans and picked up the fallen bag while surveying the area.
And Morana just stood there – speechless, stunned – looking at the wall.
The wall of her father’s house. The wall of the same house where her father lived. The wall of the heart of his territory.
And Morana had let Tristan Caine make her come like a firecracker, against that very wall, out in the open while guards patrolled the area, while he remained completely under control.
Fuck.
Fuck.
What was wrong with her? What was wrong with him?
This was the restaurant all over again except much, much more twisted. No, this wasn’t a proper fuck, and yes, it had been the mother of quickies. Still.
The worst part though? She didn’t feel an ounce of remorse.
A hand closed around her arm and turned her around, making her face those blue eyes still heated with the lust of an animal who’d caught the scent of blood, the hunger in them so intense her still-hot body pooled with molten lava, ready again. Just with his eyes.
He leaned forward, his breath whispering across her cheek, his scent engulfing her as his lips lined against her ears.
“Next time, I’m going to see how loud you can scream, Ms. Vitalio. I’m going to make you so sore you won’t know if it’s from the screaming or the fucking.”
This man needed a leash for that dirty, explicit mouth.
Morana rolled her eyes even as her heart stuttered, his words settling into her inflamed body.
“You give yourself a little too much credit.”
“Say that when I can’t still smell you on my fingers.”
She could too. And the fact that this knowledge aroused her while it shouldn’t have made Morana purse her lips, the reminder of his control and the lack of hers like a slap to her senses.
She straightened herself, pulling the bag over her shoulder, and gave him an icy glare. “Can we leave?”
His eyes narrowed slightly at her tone and he considered her for a long moment, his fingers flexing on her arm before he nodded. Turning, he pulled her towards the tree line. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Morana contemplative.
They were almost at the property wall when her phone suddenly vibrated with an incoming message in her pocket.
Ignoring it, Morana focused on getting to the hole they had entered through, seeing the guard waiting for them there. Morana reached the opening and climbed out of it, walking towards the parked beast of a bike, not willing or ready to think about what had just transpired inside.
She focused instead on the smell of the earth, the light from the moon bathing the house of horrors in clean white while watching Tristan Caine speak quietly to the guard.
Remembering the earlier message while she waited beside the vehicle, she pulled out her phone and unlocked it.
Unknown number.
Frowning, Morana clicked open the message, to find a multimedia image attached and no text. She clicked on the image, her brows furrowing as she made out the scanned picture of some old newspaper article.