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“Not yet.”
Luca’s voice comes out softer than a whisper, but it still makes me jump. I look up from his trousers, and he reaches towards me. Wrapping his bloody arm around my waist, he rolls me underneath him once more, pins me to the bed by my hips when I try to rise up.
“Let me,” he says. “Why should I not?”
“Because I don’tlikeit,” I bite out.
“Oh?” Luca looks up with fake surprise, lowers his mouth to my collarbone, kisses it. “You don’t like this? Or this?” He brushes his lips up the curve of my breast, takes my nipple into his mouth, sucks it, hot and slow and wet. I gasp and glare athim. He releases my nipple, gives it a soft lick before moving on to the next. “Do you hate this too?” He kisses the underside of my breast, where the skin is so sensitive every muscle in my stomach twitches in a ripple. “And this?” He catches my other nipple between his teeth, tugs, then swipes it with his tongue.
“Ah,” I say like it’s the start of a sentence, but it’s not.
My breath is short and hectic. There’s a rising panic in my chest like everything has slipped so far beyond my control I’m going to keep falling, with nothing to catch onto, until I’m swallowed by the white, gaping abyss that is Luca Fletcher-Lowe.
Inexorable, cool, and dangerous as frost, Luca makes his way down my body, leaving kisses everywhere. He kisses the protruding arc of each rib beneath my skin, he swipes his tongue tenderly over my fading bruises.
He pauses at my arms and has the gall, the fucking audacity, to kiss each and every single one of my scars. The new ones and the old ones, too. He kisses them all until there’s a lump in my throat and I’ve tightened my fingers so hard in his hair there’s no chance I’mnothurting him.
He doesn’t care. He kisses my scars until he reaches my wrists, and then he kisses the scars on my thighs—the deepest scars, the final scars. And when he’s done, he looks up from between my legs, swiping his thumb over my inner thigh.
“Who hurt you, Lynch?” he asks in a murmur.
I try to scoot away from him, but he pulls my back to him by my hips.
“Why, Luca?” I hiss through my constricted throat. “Wanna shake their hand in person?”
My attempt at flippancy is lost on him. He hums against my thigh, lips pressed to the scars, and then he looks up and smiles, showing all his teeth. A fervent smile like a religious zealot’s.
“Because I’m going to make them pay.”
38
Fucking Poison
Luca
For a woman withsuch high pain tolerance, in the end, it’s tenderness that sets Willow on the edge of her own skin.
Soft, sucking kissing on her lower stomach and inner thighs, slow, rhythmic strokes of my tongue on her clit, the gentle crooking of two fingers deep inside her pussy. That’s the recipe for Willow’s orgasm. When she’s about to come, she goes completely still, her back curving like a bow, her teeth digging hard into her bottom lip because she doesn’t like making noises. Her fingers curl in my hair, pull so tight my skull aches. She waits like she’s suspended over a great darkness, poised to fall.
But I don’t let her fall. I toy with her, I keep her right on the edge. I torture her with kisses, I scatter lovebites all over her thighs so that she can look at them later and remember how I made her beg.
Because I know she’ll beg.
Willow Lynch, prideful, savage, and reckless creature she is, Willow Lynch is just a human being after all. She wants what everybody else does—to feel good. That’s why she blackens her lungs with cigarettes, that’s why she listens to every instinct and indulges in anything she fancies. Shitty takeaway milkshakes, sweets, gaudy volumes of cartoon porn like a teenage boy. Willow can’t stand denying herself something she wants, and with her orgasm dangled in front of her, she’s like a dog with a treat, trembling with the violence of anticipation.
I look up from between her legs. Her body is a pale arc, her tits pointed obscenely up, her black hair a tangled spiderweb around her head.
“Would you like me to make you come, Lynch?”
She raises her head to glare at me. Her bottom lip is bitten raw, her cheeks are dark with a burning flush. “Shut the fuck up, Luca.”
“Ask me. Ask me to make you come, and I will.”
She shakes her head. She’s angry, full of that hot, itchy anger of frustration.
“Get off me,” she bites out, “and I’ll finish myself off.”
“Are you asking me to stop?” I move my fingers inside her, a slow, indulgent thrust, the sound of the movement a squelch, loud enough for us both to hear, loud enough that I see the darkening of her flush.
