“So you keep saying. But he’s alive and well in here, Little Rose. Isn’t he?” He grips my skull between his hands, applying just a taste of the brute strength he’s capable of. “He didn’t give you a fucking ring and yet he was willing to kill for you. He hid you. He beat you. Scarred you. Raped you. And yet, every time I’m fucking inside you, I know he’s there.”
“And if he is?” I spit, exasperated. When he doesn’t answer, I can’t help scoffing. “What do you want from me?”
His grip tightens, and the room blurs as he drags me into a corner and shoves me against the wall. He gives me no time to regain my bearings. Hot fingers slide around to my front, wrenching at the fastenings of my jeans. Too hard. The clasp breaks, opening me up to a ruthless assault. Then he palms me completely, groaning at the feel.
His hand is too rough. Raw. My breath catches, chest heaving, as individual fingers writhe against my flesh, wringing sounds I don’t even recognize from my throat.
“Ride me,” Mischa grates into the nape of my neck. “Fuck. Do it.”
His index finger parts my folds, flicking in a sinful downward motion. It’s like my spine is on a puppet string, controlled by that single, callous touch. Again. Harder. Deeper.
My hips start to rock in time with each motion and he grunts in approval.
But it’s still not enough.
Suddenly, his hand withdraws only to tug on my arm, wrenching me around to face him. Shadows exaggerate the amber gaze I’ve come to fear. A million hidden emotions lurk within it. Demanding things from me. Craving.
But he never says what out loud. He strips me bare instead, shoving his hands beneath my jeans, opening me up to the cock he’s palming with trembling fingers. When I start to look down, he grabs my chin, forcing it up. Forcing me to watch him. How his eyes narrow when he sinks into me. The way his nostrils flare with my scent. How he groans at the sinful fit.
His eyelids flutter as he begins to move, thrusting deep. Hard.
Too deep.
“Don’t,” he warns when my gaze starts to drift. “Look at me. You fucking—” A harsh buck of his hips makes me whine, which almost drowns him out. “Look. At. Me.”
Our gazes reconnect and it’s like he’s in my head more than my body. Boring in too roughly to stop. Showing no mercy. No sanity.
Just taking more. More. More.
My teeth clench around a hollow moan. My knees are jelly, leaving my arms no choice but to grab him for stability. My face aims for his shoulder. I need to hide my gasps. My searing cheeks inflamed with shame for how my body grips him. I need to smother the things I shouldn’t feel.
“No.” He tilts his head, jarring our noses together. Our mouths. Nipping teeth capture my bottom lip, holding me captive. His eyes are hollow, devouring mine. Something flashes across each fiery iris, gone in an instant. “You’ve never been this wet for him,” he insists between harsh, laving strokes of his tongue. “This loud. Fuck, you’re whining forme.” His eyes close as he savors the high-pitched cries rolling off my tongue.
God, he’s moving faster. Harder. I can’t breathe.
“You’ve never needed him like this. Have you?” A brutal thrust makes my vision blur.
Need?
“You were made for this,” he tells me. “Forme.” He bucks forward, twitching, straining, spilling.
My thoughts fade. The world spins and spins, and for a split second, my body is the center of the universe. The orgasm slams into me so hard that I can feel the Earth fucking move.
I regain clarity on my hands and knees, gasping on dusty, still air and masculine musk. He’s behind me, hunched over my shuddering frame.
“Even now, he’s still there,” Mischa accuses, nipping at my collar with punishing jabs of his teeth. “Still inside you. Still owning you. I could fuck you for hours and I still couldn’t drive him out.”
He stands, staggering to find his balance. In seconds, he’s redressed, heading for the door.
To leave.
To brood.
Alone.
But something holds him back, making him pause over the threshold.
“Tell me something,” he demands, sounding ragged. Empty. Soulless. “If I offered you your freedom. Money. Your fucking soul. Would you ever, for a second, feel for me what you felt for him?”
What I felt for Robert? My blood runs cold, erasing the aftermath of my climax. I shiver at the thought of it, and nothing could disguise the horror that racks my voice. “N-no.”
He laughs, even as his eyes darken, sending a chill down my spine. “Why am I not surprised?” He leaves, slamming the door after him.
Angry?
If I felt for him what I felt for Robert…
It would be easier to bear him, certainly.
Because I’d feel nothing.