Page 66 of Villainous Rise

Her legs tightened around my waist. “I want you,” she gasped. “I want you.”

I reached up, tracing the outline of her lips with my finger. Her lipstick, that deep red I’d been staring at all evening, was smeared from our kiss. The color looked better this way. Messy. Claimed.

“Beautiful,” I murmured, as I dragged my finger across her bottom lip.

Annie’s teeth caught my finger, biting down just hard enough to make me freeze. Her eyes locked with mine, daring me to pull away. I didn’t. Couldn’t.

Then she sucked my finger into the wet heat of her mouth.

“Fuck,” I hissed, my entire body going rigid.

Her tongue swirled around the tip of my finger, the slick warmth making my cock throb painfully against my suit. Each deliberate stroke of her tongue sent images flashing through my mind—Annie on her knees, those perfect lips stretched around my cock, her tongue working the same magic she was demonstrating now.

The wet suction of her mouth combined with the slight scrape of teeth had me grinding against her, desperate for friction. The mattress creaked beneath us with each thrust.

I pulled my finger free with a wet pop, replacing it immediately with my mouth, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. She tasted like expensive wine and desire. Intoxicating, addictive. My hands slid higher beneath her dress, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs as I pressed into her harder.

Wine.

The thought pierced through my lust-fogged brain. She’d been drinking wine.

She’d had four glasses, minus the swallow I’d taken myself. And she’d barely had anything to eat even with the addition of the steak before the attack interrupted everything. Then the adrenaline spike.

Fuck.

The logical part of my brain, the part not currently consumed with the need to bury myself inside her, started screaming at me. Something was wrong. This wasn’t right.

If I fucked her tonight, the alcohol would give her an out tomorrow. She could blame the adrenaline. She could blame the wine. I refused to give her that escape. I wanted her to wake up in the morning, stone-cold sober, and carry the weight of knowing she willingly spread her legs for me.

I broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at her face. Her pupils were dilated, her breathing uneven. She looked drunk, maybe not on just wine, but on adrenaline and relief.

“Annie,” I said, forcing myself to pull back fractionally. “You were drinking.”

She blinked at me, confusion clouding her eyes. “What?”

“The wine. At dinner.”

Her fingers were still tangled in my hair, her body hot against mine. “So? Does it matter?”

It mattered. Fuck, it mattered.

I closed my eyes, summoning every ounce of self-control I possessed.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” I said, my voice rough. “And you’re coming down from an adrenaline high.”

My brain felt like it was being torn in two, logic and lust waging a fucking war inside my skull. The monster in me, still hungry for blood and sex, screamed to take her. Hard. Fast. Now.

If she were anyone else, I’d already be inside her. I’d fuck her until the violence in my veins found release in her body.

But this wasn’t anyone else. This was Annie.

My Annie.

“Cipher,” she whispered, her fingers tracing my jaw. “Don’t stop.”

I caught her wrist, my grip firm but gentle. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk,” she argued.