“That’s better.” He slid his fingers out, then fluttered over her clit, sending another jolt throughout her body before plunging back inside.
Holyshit,did he know how to work her.
Charley was face down on a bed of black satin sheets, her gasps muffled by the pillow, still in her bra, ass in the air, every inch of her body craving his touch. Hard, then soft. Fierce, then soothing. The flood of sensations made her drunk and dizzy, desperate for more.
Nothing in her life had ever felt so good, so right.
So incredibly, mind-blowingly perfect.
A clear sign you’re crazy…
“Tonight,” he said, “in my bed, you’ll neither speak nor move without permission. Is that clear?”
“Yes. I mean yes, Mr. Redthorne,” she amended.
“Hmm.” Dorian removed his fingers, and the mattress shifted again, indicating he’d gotten up. She waited for the return of his touch, but it never came.
She opened her mouth to call for him but thought better of it. No talking, no moving without his permission. It was all part of the game, and Charley loved every sinfully hot minute of it.
A lot of men thought they knew how to dominate a woman, but for them it was all about ego gratification. She’d been disappointed in the bedroom more times than she could count, most notably—and most often—by Travis, the snake.
But a man like Dorian knew how to be real. How to test her boundaries, push her to the edge without ever taking advantage. Submitting to him came easily. His demanding touch and firm commands were like a down payment—a promise that he’d always bring her to sheer bliss.
In return, she trusted him with her body.
With her life.
In so many ways, she was dancing on the razor’s edge between life and death.
And it was sheer fucking ecstasy.
Hot, strong hands gripped her thighs, and Charley yelped. She hadn’t heard him, hadn’t felt his return to the bed. But suddenly he was there, spreading her wide, his mouth descending to her depths.
“You’re beautiful, Charlotte,” he said, and she felt the heat of his words between her thighs. “So fucking gorgeous.”
Dorian licked a path from her clit to her taint, then back again, and everything melted away: her job, the LaPorte painting and Hermes sculpture, the lies she’d told, the risks she’d taken, the attack in the garden, the knowledge of Dorian’s true nature.
All that mattered now was this sexy, dominating man, his tongue lighting a fire deep in her belly, his kiss a drug on which she’d happily overdose.
He brought her close with his mouth—so close she was certain she’d fall—but then he pulled back.
Another slap stung her skin, and Dorian moved up the length of her body, kissing the ridges of her spine, her neck, her ear.
His cock was smooth and stiff between her thighs. She couldn’t help it—shehadto move, even if it meant risking punishment. Her hips rocked against the silky sheets, arching toward him, begging him for more.
For all of it.
“Once a bad girl, always a bad girl,” he murmured. “Youreallyshouldn’t disobey me.”
With one hand clamped around her hip, the other around the back of her neck, Dorian thrust inside her.
Holy.
Fucking.
Hell.
Again and again he drove into her, then pulled out slowly, slamming back into her slick heat with a force that only made her want more.
