“Bring it on.” Then I move, pulling the door shut and turning the key. Something hits the door as I lock it. I’m not sure what, since she doesn’t have any shoes or clothes in there, but the room isn’t empty and… I smile.
Behind the door, she starts to cry again. I put my hand on it, splayed flat. Part of me, the foolish part, wants to go back in, to comfort her, to stop her tears. I lay my forehead against the smooth grain of the wood before I straighten, step back, and walk back to my room. I rub a hand over my face as I strip down to run the shower.
She’s like a kitten, claws and needle teeth, one who thinks she’s a lion. I let her talk, rant, hiss. I let her because I want to see how she ticks.
How she ticks turns me on.
I should have taken her now, fuck the plan.
No. Even though the taste of her is seared into me, her sweet juices somehow still on my tongue, her scent in my bones, fucking her now is a mistake. My plan is already in motion, and I can’t veer from it, even if she is in my blood.
The water sluices down my back as I lean one hand against the slick, wet marble of the shower wall and I wrap my other around my cock.
She was so fucking delicious, hot and so wet. I tighten my hand, imagining it’s her cunt I’m using, not my hand. That tight, untried cunt. I stroke off, wringing out the tension from touching her, the pleasure I want with her, in her.
She shuddered against me, spread her legs further for me. Rose fucking pushed onto my fingers without realizing it. She wanted to moan, and I remember every moment of it, how hard she clamped down when she came.
Fuck. I move my hand tighter, rougher, working my cock. I want to feel her around me. I want to destroy her until she’s nothing more than mine, my toy, my property. I want to taste and touch every part of her in worship. I want to fucking bite her, soothe her, rile her, kiss her, mark her.
The slickness of the water is cool against the fever searing through me, one that’s all Rosalind. My hand moves lower, pulling up, and I hit that sensitive spot at the base of the head, sliding up and over the top, and then back down. Over and over, rougher and rougher, until I reach the right intensity, the pleasure-pain and pressure from the build-up of tension, the need for ultimate release.Fuck. I wish it was her mouth, her ass, her pussy, I don’t care; all I want is it to be her and not my hand.
I’m close. I’m so fucking close, I can almost feel her on my cock. After all, I’ve had my fingers deep in that tight, hot wetness.
Christ.
I turn my head to the side and put my fingers that were deep in her to my nose. They’re wet with water, but I can still conjure her scent, remember her juices. Pushing one of the three fingers in my mouth I suck, like that wetness is hers.Oh, fuck, yeah. I’m almost fucking there. One. More.
My balls tighten and the pleasure surges, and I come with a guttural moan. It takes a few minutes to come down from that intense release, and I finish the shower slightly more relaxed than before.
I say slightly because even now, I’m slightly aroused. Christ, that wasn’t enough. It won’t be enough until I finally take her. After I’ve broken her, made her pant for me, I’m sure I’ll be done. This isn’t just me getting off. This is getting revenge, sticking to a plan.
I sit on the sofa and reach for my phone. It’s just past midnight and I pull up Derek Finnegan’s number. We circle each other, neither wanting the mark that’ll come from starting a real war. He’s going to, though, or he’ll pay so fucking deeply, he’ll wish he’d shredded own his flesh from his body and handed it to me.
I press call. He answers almost immediately, but doesn’t say a fucking thing. I can feel the burn of hate, hotter than I’ve ever felt from him, and I almost laugh.
He knows.
“Finnegan, I have something that belongs to you.”
There’s a grunt that borders on a growl on the other end, but still he doesn’t stay a word. I let that silence stretch until it’s so taut, it could be played with a bow. The waiting—because this bastard knows I’m not done—must be excruciating.
Finally, I speak once more before ending the call. “And she’s very, very delicious.”
Chapter9
Rosalind
Nikolai.
Nikolai Wilder.
The name of my kidnapper, my torturer. The name’s been on repeat in my head since I heard it last night, since he touched me. I despise him and I want him dead, want to be the one to do the deed. What’s worse, though, is that I want more. I want him to finish the job and take me.
I sink down on the bed and clasp my hands in my lap, trying not to shake. Sex with him is… I swallow. How can I want him and hate him at the same time? I’m sick in the head, I have to be. No one would want that.
Him taking me, forcing me, finishing the job he started by touching me so intimately—it would be better than asking him to do it. If he made me have sex with him, I could claim plausible deniability in my head.
Last night, he opened my door and didn’t even come inside? What was that? Was it to watch me suffer? To see me crying? To taunt me? None of those quite fit, and I’m not even sure it matters.