Chapter 2 An orgasm to remember
Lara's POV
I pulled him close and shut him up with another deep sensual kiss. Then I pulled back. His breath came ragged against my lips as I pulled back just enough to let him feel the loss of me. Helson’s dark eyes looked like one that held total control, but they were now wide with a hunger I recognized instantly from all my years as a seductress, which was good because, hunger could be shaped and used.
I let Anya’s softer fingers trail down the scarred plane of his chest, tracing old bullet wounds like they were braille that spelled surrender. When my nails grazed the thin line of hair beneath his navel, his hips jerked involuntarily.
“Anya…” My new name sounded broken in his throat.
I smiled the way the other me would have smiled at a man right before I took his life, slow, sweet, and merciless. Then I leaned in and whispered against his ear, “You said you love what’s happening to me. Shall I show you how much worse I can get?”
Before he could answer I pushed him back onto the mattress, the sheets were silk, cool against his heated skin, and he sank into them like a worshipper. I climbed over him, knees on either side of his ribs, letting the thin silk of Anya’s nightgown ride up my thighs until the fabric barely covered anything at all.
His hands rose to grip my hips, but I caught his wrists and pinned them above his head with one hand. Anya’s body was softer than mine had ever been, but the memory of two years fighting chains was still there, coiled and ready. Helson’s pulse hammered beneath my palm.
“Stay,” I ordered in a low voice.
He obeyed, to his surprise. But of course I expected that. Men like Helson always thought they were the predators until someone reminded them what being a prey felt like, and they mostly always strangely loved it.
I bent and dragged my tongue along the jagged scar that cut across his collarbone and this commanding figure of a man shuddered. I tasted salt and maybe gunpowder, or I was just imagining things, then I worked my way lower, my teeth scraping over a nipple, then soothing it with my tongue until he arched off the bed with a choked sound, he has never felt pleasure like this.
When I reached the sharp cut of his hipbone, I paused. His cock lay thick and ready against his stomach, it was already wet at the tip. I blew a cool breath across it and watched it go up in hunger.
“Anya, please—”
“Shh.” I pressed two fingers to his lips. “Good boys wait.”
He bit down on my fingers instead, his eyes blazing up at me, and I laughed, actually laughed, the sound startling us both. It was the first time I’d laughed in two years.
I rewarded him by wrapping my hand around his cock, and giving him slow, deliberate strokes that made his thighs tremble. Every time his hips tried to thrust into my grip, I stopped. Every time he whimpered my borrowed name, I started again, slower, crueler.
When his chest was heaving and his cock was leaking steadily over my knuckles, I rose up on my knees. The silk nightgown slid off one shoulder, baring the curve of a breast he’d clearly worshipped before, but this time, his gaze fixed there with a new found vigor like a starving man.
I guided him to the entrance of my pussy, teasing the head of his cock through wet lips that weren’t mine but answered anyway. Oh! Biology was such a treacherous thing.
“Look at me,” I commanded.
His eyes snapped to mine obediently. He had no single argument in him.
I sank down in one smooth, punishing glide, and we both cried out from the warmth and pleasure that followed. He filled me perfectly, stretching Anya’s body in ways that sent sparks behind my eyes. I didn’t give either of us time to adjust, I rode him hard, my hips rolling, grinding, and taking every inch until the headboard of the bed knocked against the wall.
His hands found my waist again, fingers digging bruises into soft flesh, and I let him, I just felt bad for Anya, because if she had to repossess this body, she'd be surprised by the bruises on her once spotless body. I leaned forward, breasts brushing his chest, and bit his lower lip until I tasted copper.
“Tell me,” I gasped against his mouth, “tell me you’re mine.”
“Fuck—yes—yours—” he couldn't even make a complete sentence.
I clenched around him deliberately and he shouted, back bowing off the bed. I didn’t stop. I fucked him through the first orgasm, milking every pulse, every drop, until he was shaking and begging in a language made of broken syllables.
Only then did I let myself follow, grinding down hard, chasing the bright edge of pleasure that had been stolen from me for two long years. It crashed over me like a wave against stone, violent and cleansing.
I collapsed onto his chest, both of us slick with sweat, our hearts hammering against each other.
His arms came around me slowly, almost reverently. “Anya,” he whispered into my hair, voice wrecked. “What the hell have you done to me?”
I smiled against his skin, tasting salt and victory.
I’ve only just started, I thought.
Somewhere in the haze, I felt the last fragments of Anya’s memories settle into place like the final pieces of a puzzle. Names, dates, secrets, the location of the safe behind the Rembrandt in his study, the passcode to the offshore accounts that funded half the Draconian Lord’s empire.
Helson had no idea he’d just handed the keys to his kingdom and his inlaws to the one woman who would burn it all down.
I pressed a gentle kiss to the scar beneath his jaw, the picture of a sated lover.
Sleep, darling, I murmured. You’re going to need your strength.
Because tonight, when the house was quiet and the moon was high, I was going to slip from this bed, walk barefoot down the marble halls, and start cutting throats with the pretty little letter opener I’d seen on his desk.
The Draconian Lord had kept me alive for two years to suffer.
Now I was alive again, soft and pampered and perfectly placed, to make him scream.