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“Don’t you dare use your big, huge body to overpower me!” A door opens, and our housekeeper Alma holds it wide. “Oh, my, my, my,” she says, then goes right back in and closes her door again.
I slap Violet’s ass perched over my shoulder, hard.
“Don’t you dare!”
“Just did. Or what?” I spank her again.
“Or I’ll scream!”
“Then what? Scream to be rescued?”
She howls and smacks my back. I walk past my bedroom to the library, slam the door behind me, and lock it.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her tone laden with panic. “Caiinnn…”
I’m driving her to distraction while Henri does what I asked him to. I don’t want to fucking fight with her anyway.
“Cain, are you doing what I think you’re doing?”
The wind howls outside the window, raging with the threat of freezing rain. But here, in front of the fire, the wood crackles and burns with the ferocity of a dragon.
“What if I don’t want to?” she says, even as an edge in her tone begs me to take her, dares me to make her.
“You promised me.” I’m already unfastening her jeans and shoving them halfway down her thighs. “Hands over your head.”
With a whimper, she wriggles but obeys. My jeans tighten when she makes me hard, that angry but obedient side to her the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. She wars with herself. She fights it. There isn’t a submissive bone in Violet’s body, but she wants this.
Needs this.
Craves this.
And she doesn’t like to flat-out defy me. She’s done it a few times, but most of the time, Violet does what she’s promised … to give herself to me fully.
I reach for the top she wears, fitted to her body like a glove, and yank it up and over her head. She wears nothing but a little red bra with cotton cups and tiny satin laces. In one flick of the wrist, the bra is open and her breasts fall free. I take a moment to lick and nibble, kiss and worship each of them, until her back arches and she releases a low moan.
“Yes. Mmm. God, yes, I love it when you torture my nipples.”
I take that as an invitation, and sink my teeth into one hardened, throbbing bud, while I stroke between her legs. I flick my tongue over the very tip, making her moan and gyrate her hips. The fire flickers in the hearth, as I lay her on a soft rug.
“You put… this rug… here just for this, didn’t you?” she pants, bracing herself on her palms before the fire.
“No, I put it here for show.” I bite her other nipple. “Of course I bought it for this. Who else ever comes in here?”
The library is at the end of the hall past my bedroom, and Violet’s really the only one who frequents this area of the house, which is why it’s the perfect spot to keep her occupied while Henri does his work.
God, I hate myself for this. All this time, I told myself I was trying to build trust with her, but am I doing the one thing that might cause her not to trust me?
What will she do if I tell her?
I watch as her lips part, and lose myself to pleasuring her. I’ve never been one who was eager to please, but with Violet… God, with Violet, I’ll give her anything she wants. Anything.
I immerse myself in her, in the way she tastes, her intoxicating smell, the way her body moves when I touch her. I inhale her fragrance and lick her breasts, I smell the salty-musky scent of her seduction wrapped around me like a cloak, and I’m lost.
I tear the rest of her clothing off and ignore the vicious rip sound when I tear her panties. Her clothes are in the way, and I want them off now.
“Me, too, Cain, let me,” she whispers, her fingers clasping my belt buckle and quaking. I nod, while I yank the hem of my tee and tug it over my head. Violet’s eyes go half-lidded, and she runs her tongue along her lips.
I shove every other thought out of my mind. I won’t dwell on fear. I’ve got Violet, and that’s all that matters to me right now.
Chapter Ten
Violet
I wake in the middle of the night with something so clear to me, I can’t stay in slumber. I sit up in bed and blink my eyes.
My mother was the assassin.
It wasn’t my father.
I close my eyes, but I’m wide awake, going over every detail.
I thought everything added up to their being assassins. Weapons had lain hidden in armored boxes under their bed. I was forbidden to touch them, but knew that’s what they held when years later one of my foster parents had a hushed conversation about the “evil weapons” my parents held. I overheard enough hushed conversations to know that someone—I assumed my father—was responsible for the death of so many.
