Page 25 of Claimed Through Deception

"A new decanter arrived today," I state. I gesture to the crystal liquor cabinet against the wall. "Try again."

Her eyes widen. She looks at the cabinet, then back at me. "I..." She swallows. "I might drop it."

"Then don't drop it," I reply softly.

She turns and walks the few steps to the cabinet. I follow her.

As she reaches out to grab the heavy crystal neck of the decanter, I step in right behind her.

I don't touch her with my hands, but I don't leave an inch of space between us. My chest brushes against her shoulder blades. My hips align perfectly with the curve of her backside. The mass of my body entirely cages her against the wooden cabinet.

Livia gasps, her hand jerking slightly. The glass stopper clinks against the rim of the decanter.

"Steady," I murmur.

I lower my head, my face hovering right next to her neck. She smells like cheap vanilla soap and adrenaline-laced terror. It is the most intoxicating scent I have ever breathed in. I inhale deeply, letting the heat of my breath wash over the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

She shivers violently.

"Pour the drink, Livia," I command softly.

Her hand is shaking. She lifts the decanter, her knuckles white. She picks up a heavy crystal tumbler with her other hand.

I press my chest firmer against her back. I want her to feel exactly how much she affects me. I want her to feel the rigid, aching ridge of my erection pressing against her spine through the fabric of my trousers.

Her breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that echoes in the quiet study.

She tips the decanter. The amber liquid spills into the glass, splashing slightly over the rim onto the silver tray because her hands are trembling so badly.

"You're shaking," I observe, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"I'm not," she lies, her voice barely a whisper.

"Liar."

She sets the decanter down with a sharp clank. She tries to turn around, to step away from the suffocating heat of my body, but she is trapped between me and the cabinet.

She turns her head, looking over her shoulder. Her face is inches from mine. Her eyes are wide, dark, and swimming with a chaotic mix of fear and a desperate, undeniable heat.

I lift my hand. I don't grab her wrists this time. I brush the loose strands of dark hair away from her neck. My knuckles drag down the soft column of her throat.

I feel it.

Right beneath the surface of her skin, her pulse is hammering. It is frantic. It is a wild, racing beat that betrays the rigid mask of indifference she tries to wear.

My thumb presses gently over the jumping vein.

"You hate me," I state quietly, holding her gaze.

"Yes," she breathes.

"You think I'm a monster."

"Yes."

I lean in closer, until our mouths are separated by a fraction of an inch. "Then why is your heart beating so fast?"

She doesn't have an answer. Her lips part, a soft, stuttering exhale ghosting across my mouth. The sexual tension is heavy enough to crush the breath out of both of us. She wants me to kiss her. I can see it in the dark, dilated pupils of her eyes. She wants me to take the choice away from her.