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“You’re right,” Quinley whispered to the redhead, “he’s very detached. Like he’s dissociated from life.”
“He’s had it hard,” Elle murmured, “but I don’t think trauma made him that way. As I said earlier, Blair swore he was always different.”
Finally sliding into the SUV, Quinley sighed in pleasure as the warmth of the vehicle washed over her. The heat coming from the seat was an added bonus. By the time Isaiah had dropped her shopping buddies at their respective apartment buildings, she was feeling cozily warm.
Inside the house, she went straight upstairs to put away her purchases. She also stashed Isaiah’s gifts somewhere he’d never find them.
Returning downstairs, she went to the kitchen, intending to make a hot drink. She was about to call out to Isaiah and ask if he wanted one, but then his scent breezed into the room. A half-smile curved her mouth, and she parted her lips to speak. The words didn’t come out, replaced by a gasp as his hand fisted the back of her hair.
He roughly spun her to face the kitchen island and shoved her forward, pinning her front flat to its surface. Her hands shot out in surprise—one gripping the end of the island on her right, the other gripping the edge above her head.
Well.
His body heat pressed into her back as he curled over her and put his mouth to her ear. “Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t come until I say.”
Sheer dominance looped through every harshly spoken word, planting hooks in her mind, compelling her to obey, snaring her cat’s focus. It also triggered a chemical reaction that woke up Quinley’s nerve-endings, revved her sexual engines, and made her body relax for him.
She’d never be able to adequately describe how such expressions of dominance could seize her focus and have such a physical impact on her. It was just so instinctual, so automatic. Like a preprogrammed response encoded in her DNA. She suspected only other submissives would really understand.
Isaiah released her hair, snapped open the fly of her jeans, and dragged both them and her panties down to her knees. Then suddenly one of her legs were free, he kicked both apart.
And plunged two fingers inside her.
Oh, fuck.
Every pump of his fingers was hard but shallow, delicious but teasing. Having no way to find purchase with her feet, since the tips of her toes barely brushed the tiled floor, she held tight to the edges of the island.
Isaiah roughly shoved the back of her sweater all the way up to her nape. His fingers whispered over patches of her flesh, and she knew he was tracing the bites, bruises, and scratches there. Every touch was gentle but so damn entitled. Her cat loved it.
He drove the fingers inside her deeper with a growl. “Your skin is painted with my marks. My own personal masterpiece.”
Her feline melted under the force of his dominance, so drawn by it she edged forward. Quinley felt the brush of fur just beneath her skin, smelt the feral edge in her scent signaling her animal’s closeness.
A long, drawn-out snarl came from Isaiah. Both his hands disappeared. A zipper lowered. Something hard, hot, and long slapped her ass.
He glided the head of his cock between her wet folds. “All day I’ve been thinking about this pussy. Filling it. Using it. Feeling it drench my dick when you come.”
Isaiah clamped a hand on her hip and ruthlessly slammed his hips forward, forcing her to accept every inch of his cock. Needing her to take it. Her tight pussy spasmed around him and, fuck, he could come right then.
But he didn’t.
He planted his free hand on her nape to hold her in place. “This is gonna be fast.” He rode her hard, his pace almost rabid.
He hadn’t lied. Throughout the day, his thoughts had so often drifted to fucking her that they’d bordered on obsessive. His instincts—again powered by the absence of the bond—had driven him to hunt her, bring her back to their den, take her over and over and over.
He’d texted her several times, unable to resist; needing that connection; trying to let the exchange of messages be enough. The chaos in his mind and body had eased off once he’d picked her up from the lot, his system satisfied now that she was back in his possession.
Still, he now had her bent over the island as he plowed into her. Why? Because he needed it. Not because they lacked a bond, not because primitive instincts were fucking with him. But because he’d come to crave this—how she yielded to him, how her pussy felt around his cock, how he could finally be.
He upped his pace, brutally pounding into her, urged on by her soft, trembly moans. “You needed this, didn’t you?” he gritted out. “I did. Needed to shoot my come where it belongs.”
She whimpered, her inner walls heating and tightening.
Sensing she was close, he squeezed her hip, letting her feel the prick of his claws. “Go on, you can come. Do it now.”
She did. Her head snapped up, a rough scream grated her throat, and her pussy all but strangled him.
A growl escaped through his gritted teeth. “Good. Fucking. Girl.” All finesse, control, and rhythm disappeared as he fucked her harder, pursuing his own release.
