Chapter 15: Chapter Fourteen

Her mind scrambled for reasons; her body had none ready. Her thighs trembled. He dipped his head to take her lips in a kiss.

“Don’t…” she started, then swallowed. “Don’t hurt me.”

“Never,” he said, with a certainty that almost stole some of her fear, until he said, “I’ll wreck you and use you. I won’t hurt you, but you would hurt yourself by resisting my touch.”

He tipped her chin with two fingers and slammed his mouth to hers.

The kiss was nothing gentle. It was cruel, demanding and hot. It was a claim; heat and edge, a desperate press that made her gasp and open her mouth to him without meaning to. His tongue slid against hers and stole the breath she’d been using as defense. She tasted scotch and mint and something that belonged to him alone. Her hands found his fisted his shirt and clutched like she was falling and he was the only thing solid. He groaned; low, satisfied and deepened the kiss until the sound itself blurred. She tasted like everything he had ever imagined. Everything he wanted.

Her hand shot at his chest, trying to push him away, but she was no match for his strength. Her moans were of both approval and disapproval. He felt it. But he couldn't stop. Not now, not ever. He was going to leave his mark on her today. He was going to be the only man who feasts on her. Her whole existence has to revolve around him alone.

His mouth moved to her jaw, then lower to her neck. He sucked a mark at the place where her pulse moved. Her head tipped back. Her breath broke. Heat pooled low and hot between her legs. His hands slid up, palms full of her waist; one rose higher, unbuttoned the little blazer she had on and cupped the swell of her breast through silky camisole. His thumb teased until her nipple tightened hard against the thin fabric, a sharp electric line arrowing straight to the ache between her thighs.

“Hunter,” she gasped, the way you say a name when you’re not sure you should. Her body was on fire. She doesn't want this. She doesn't want the touch of a man who killed her brother in cold blood. She was having a battle between her mind and her body. She felt disgusted for closing her eyes to his touch.

“Good,” he murmured against her throat. “I want to hear my name messy in your mouth.”

He rolled her nipple between finger and thumb and watched her shiver. His other hand slid down her spine, spread at the small of her back, pulling her closer to the heat pressed to the front of his trousers. He rocked once, a deliberate grind that made her feel him thick and hot, and a flush burned all the way to her ears. He continued robbing himself to her center, dry humping her again and again. The pressure in his cock was becoming overwhelming, and he was breathing very hard.

“Feel that?” he whispered, teeth grazing her skin. “That’s what your stubbornness does to me. That’s what your defiance does.”

Her hands trembled where they lay on his chest, trying to push him away from her. Reason flooded in from a distance in her head. Her mind stood on this one and decided to move again. She pushed his chest even harder, but he didn't bulge.

“Stop fighting me,” he commanded again, his voice sharp like a blade.

She didn’t. She wiggled in his hold. Wanting desperately to let free, but he held her still with one hand. He held her tight, she couldn't even move or breathe properly.

He slid his hand beneath the hem of her camisole, up over bare skin. Heat met heat. He palmed her breast, then slipped inside the cup of her bra, thumb circling, then flicking her nipples, drawing a broken sound from her mouth that made his own breath seize. He kissed her again, swallowing her gasp, rewarding it with another slow rock of his hips against the soft inside of her thighs.

“Open for me baby,” he coaxed. “Let me touch what you’ve been hiding.”

She was already open. He was already in-between her thighs and even rolling her nipples. How open does he expect her to be. She stopped fighting him. Her muscles were tired and have forgotten how to argue. He skimmed his fingers down, slow as sin, along the inside of her thigh, over the thin barrier of satin, teasing her. He traced the outline of her pussy and found it soaked. A rough approving sound tore from his chest.

“Fuck, yes,” he breathed, all hunger. “So wet for me, angel.”

He pressed his finger against her through the fabric, a steady, knowing pressure that made her hips jerk. She tried getting away again, but with a look that pinned her will down, she stopped. He pushed the edge of her panties, slipped a finger and touched bare heat.

Her head snapped back. The ceiling blurred. He drew circles on her swollen and unbearably sensitive clit, then slid lower—one long, wet stroke. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh. He groaned into her neck, thrilled by the marks she left on him.

“You’re gorgeous here,” he rasped. “Soft and hot and mine.”

“Don’t…call me that,” she panted, even as her hips tilted to chase him. “I’m not…”

“Then say stop,” he said. He waited a fraction. She didn’t. He smiled against her jaw. “Tell me to stop.”

“Please stop, I really don't want this," she was a tear away now.”

" Good girl,” he slid a finger inside her, almost slowly, learning the shape of her. Wondering how she could be this tight. Her breath fractured. He pushed his finger shallow until she loosened a bit, then deeper, his thumb still stroking her clit. Pleasure coiled dangerously in her stomach. He found a rhythm that made tears sting her eyes. He fucked her with his finger continuously, never letting up. “You should know by now that I will never stop. You have to take everything I do to you.”

She grabbed his wrist. To stop him. The pressure in her pussy was too much for her. It was painful and stretching. “Hunter…”

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Say my name. The pain can only bleed to pleasure Bella. Let yourself feel.”

She shook her head, panting, her last resolve of rebellion already melting at the edges. He added a second finger, scissored gently, then curled, and her spine bowed against the cool marble as if the city outside had dragged a lung through her back. She heard herself make a sound she’d never made, didn’t know she could, raw and pleading. The pain between her legs was too much.

“Already close,” he murmured, delighted. “You’re going to make such a mess on my hand.”

He fucked her with his fingers, thumb stroking in tight, knowing circles. She was wet and slick and clenching; her heat fueled him. “Hunter…” his name broke; she bit her lip hard enough to sting.

“Let go,” he breathed. “I’ve got you.”

She came with a shudder that ripped through her like a musical note breaking, thighs trembling, his name in her lips like shattered pieces. He didn’t stop until she sagged, until the aftershocks turned from pleasure-pain to oversensitive. He stilled immediately, removed his fingers from her heat and slid his hand up to cradle the side of her face while she dragged air back into her lungs. He pressed a soothing kiss to her damp temple.

When her eyes opened, they were unfocused and furious and confused. He read every pieceof emotion like a book. He loved each one.

He took her hand then and brought it to the hard line straining his trousers. He held her gaze, lowering his voice until it was just breath. “Touch me.”

Her cheeks flamed as she drew her hand back “I don’t…”

He took her hand back and pressed to his groin. “I’ll show you,” he said. He guided her palm along his length over the fabric slowly first, up and down—until her fingers got the rhythm, the pressure. He groaned, low and dangerous . “There. Just like that.”

Heat crawled up her neck. She didn’t look away. He guided her again, then unbuckled, dragged the zipper down, freed himself into her tentative grip. He was heavy in her hand, hot and silken, a shock of indecency made her stomach drop and flutter all at once.

“Wrap your fingers,” he ordered softly. “Stroke me. If you don't I will make you swallow the whole of me in your mouth.”

She did, clumsy at first, then finding a rhythm that drew rough, unfiltered sounds from his chest. His hand stayed at the back of her neck, holding her in his focus, thumb stroking slow reassurance as if the intimacy belonged to both of them. He thrust into her hand with shallow control, his breathing turning ragged. “You’re learning very fast,” he managed, his voice wrecked. “Of course you are.”

She swallowed, eyes wide, fascinated by the power in her fingers, the way his jaw clenched, the way his breath caught. He looked gone in her fingers. “Is this…”

“Perfect,” he gritted, then laughed, low and sinful. “And evil. Keep going.”

She squeezed a little harder. He choked out her name, the sound like prayer and a plea. “Fuck, Mira.” he fucked her hand desperately as if he was going to fall dead if he didn't.

Her heart stuttered. The room had only his moans and dirty talks and the dirty music of breath and touch, the city a smear of light beyond the glass. He swelled in her hand, his hips moving in perfection. His palm slid to her cheek, holding her there as if he wanted to live in her eyes in the moment he broke.

“Look at me,” he said. She tried to fight it again, but he held her face in place. “Fucking look at me Bella," and she did.

He came with a loud groan that vibrated through his chest into her bones, hot and urgent against her hand. He spilled in her fingers and on her thighs. His breath was unsteady, eyes locked to hers the whole time like it mattered that she witnessed him lose control. He rode it out with her name between his teeth. Then he exhaled, shuddered, and pressed his forehead to hers for one quiet second that felt like trespassing on something he rarely gave anyone.

Silence followed, breath-laced and indecent. The city blinked, indifferent. Her pulse roared in her ears. His thumb swept absent mindedly through the damp of her swollen lower lip.

“My filthy, little flame,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Look what we do to each other.”

She jerked like her senses just returned. Shame nipped at her senses. She pulled her hand back flushed. He reached out for a napkin and offered to her which she used to wipe her hands and thighs vigorously, like she was trying to wipe off sin from her body. He tucked himself away again. one-handed with ease then took another napkin and cleaned his fingers—the ones that had just opened her.

With his eyes never leaving hers, he adjusted his pants. He poured water in a glass and set it near her. She drank because her mouth was dry and lying to herself would be stupid. He watched her throat work and thought about his mouth there later. She was quiet for the longest time.

“You hate me,” he said, as if they were discussing the weather.

She stared at the far window. “Yes.”

“Good,” he said. “Keep it. It sharpens my desire for you.” He reached, smoothed a thumb along a smudge of lipstick at the corner of her mouth. “We’re not finished baby, we just got started. You haven't felt me inside of you and I haven't felt you around me.”

“We never started anything,” she said. “And this is never happening again." Heat and denial were fighting in her tone.

His grin returned, dangerous and patient. “Correction: We started years ago. And this…” he pointed between them, “will continue forever.”

She slid off the table on shaky legs and smoothed her skirt, buttoned her blazer and adjusted her bra. He didn’t help her; or try to touch her again. He let her do it because he might just get tempted and take her on the table.

He stepped back, composed again, boss again, the man the city knew. “You’ll pack a bag when you get home, I'm taking you to my house,” he said, tone returning to business. “From tomorrow, you’ll stay with me; downtown.”

She blinked, the words like a thrown stone. “Absolutely not.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“I’m not moving into your house.”

“You are,” he said simply. “Because I want to have access to you whenever I want. And you belong in my house, beside me.”

“I am not a prostitute you are supposed to have access to whenever you like.”

“I didn’t ask what you are,” he replied impatiently. “I told you the terms. You exist in my radius now. In that radius, you breathe because I say so.”

Her temper snapped. “You don’t own me.”

He leaned in, close enough for his breath to brush her mouth without touching. “I’m not asking to own you baby,” he murmured. “I’m telling you I already do.”

She swallowed fury and the pathetic echo of pleasure that still pulsed under her skin. “If I say no?”

“I’ll come collect you,” he said. “And you won’t like how public that gets.”

She held his eyes. “You promised not to hurt me.”

“I won’t.” A beat. “But I didn't promise that you wouldn't hurt yourself if you resist me.”

She stepped toward the elevator. It slid open like it had been listening. She kept her chin high, her lips set, her pulse controlled. She stopped in the doorway and looked back because of course she did.

“Go to hell,” she said.

He smiled like a patient demon. “Pack your things, Mirabella. You’re staying with me.”

The doors closed on the shape of him. Alone in the quiet of the descending elevator, she told herself two truths at once: she hated him. And he knew exactly how to make her forget why when he was close.

She would not bow and she would not beg.

When she went back to the club floor, Saraphina gave her an apologetic stare as she came in and hugged her. “Oh dear."

“I'm fine Phina, I'm fine."

The rest of the night went by like smoke. She served and bubbled with the girls, knowing very well that he was watching her from above. But she was not going to give him the satisfaction he wanted.

She knew he would do as he said, but she would still fight him and not just be an easy prey.