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Her mouth says one thing, but her body always manages to give away what she’s really feeling.
Mine does, too, if I’m being honest.
“If memory serves, you haven’t had any problem with my ‘control issues.’” I lean into her, blocking any chance for escape. The thundering force of her heartbeat makes my own hum louder. “You can’t deny it, can you? You love when I treat you like my dirty whore. When I fuck you against walls, when I punish you for being bad. You think it’s hot as hell, don’t you?”
“You’re an evil bastard who kidnapped me from my home.” Natasha’s voice shakes with anger but she evades my questions. “You just want to use me as a way to torment my father, as a way to fuck out all of your fury. And I hate you for using me like I’m nothing more than…than…”
“My dirty whore,” I finish for her.
Her nostrils flare. “I hate you.”
“Your body tells a very different version of that story.”
I slide my hands down the sides of her torso, gripping her by the hips. Desire settles into her features as she sways into me, as if under an erotic spell, one she can’t battle no matter how hard she tries.
“Is this the part where you pretend to be angry?” I taunt her, slipping my hands under the hem of her shirt and kneading her luscious breasts.
Her head lolls backward. A sexy moan tumbles from her lips in response.
“When you pretend you don’t love feeling the sharp sting of my hand against your ass? When you swear that you don’t want my hard cock inside of you, making you come over and over again?”
She can protest all she wants, but she knows what she wants. And she knows I can give it to her.
Suddenly, Natasha recoils as if she just now realizes that she’s completely full of shit and is proving my point with every roll of her hips and soft mewls.
She straightens up and shoves her hands against my chest, shattering the spell. Her evident hunger is quickly replaced with disgust and disdain.
“I was right about you. You are a goddamn monster. All you care about is power and control. That’s all I am to you, a way to claim them both!”
Her words hit me like a cement brick to the gut because, in my perpetual quest for vengeance, I never figured out how to articulate my feelings. It never mattered before because no other woman had given me a reason to.
But seeing Natasha flail against me in an attempt to break free, and feeling her caustic words assault my heart, I know I am as big of a liar as she is.
I clamp my hands around her shoulders in an attempt to hold her still. My pulse hammers against my throat when her lips part once again, and the façade I am desperate to keep intact unravels faster than toilet paper at a rest stop.
Her fierce glare makes my throat tighten. “When you came over to me after the wedding attack and made those threats against my father because of what he let happen to me, I thought it was because…” She stops as if she’s letting the words marinate before spewing them at me like razor-sharp daggers.
“You thought what? That this means something to me beyond my need for revenge? That you actually mean something to me?”
The words lodge in the back of my throat, my mind a mess of salacious images of Natasha, beginning from that first night that I took her home with me.
The feels and the sounds are all branded into my memory — her moans and whimpers for release, the tingle of her bare skin against my palm, her pebbled flesh alive with goosebumps as my fingertips stroked the surface.
Electricity crackles in the air between us, the flowing current hot enough to singe my skin when I choke out the words that beg to be asked.
“Is that what you want to hear, Natasha? What you need to hear?”
