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36
Penny
The cloth tears down the middle, and I yelp. He doesn’t stop there. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a knife, then slides it under the center of my bra. He twists his wrist, and the lace snaps. My tits spill out. I suck in a breath from between my lips, and my chest heaves. He stares at my breasts for a second, another. Goosebumps flare across my skin. My core weeps. I squeeze my thighs together, and he drops his gaze there.
As if I reminded him of what he wanted to do next, he slips the blade under the waistband of my skirt and snips—the material splits down the middle. He places the knife aside, then grips the two ends of the skirt, and in one swoop, tears it down the center.
I cry out; I can’t stop myself. This man is so strong, the brute force trapped in his body has never been more evident than it is today. My pulse rate speeds up. My throat dries. All that manliness, all that alphaholeness concentrated under his skin, and I’m going to be at the receiving end of it.
Will I survive this encounter? Does it matter if I don’t?
To feel his body on mine, his palm-prints on my skin, his breath on my cheek, the rough hair of his thighs scraping against mine, his fingers inside me, his cock, his tongue, his eyelashes tangled with mine… To be his would be heaven and hell and everything in between, and I want it more than I can say.
He reaches for the waistband of my panties and tugs. The fabric gives way so quickly, it’s easy to forget it’s because of the power locked in his muscles, his tendons, his flesh—that I want to mark as thoroughly as he will mine. I raise my hand to cup his cheek, but he catches my wrist and twists my hand behind my back. Then the other. He drags his gaze down my naked breasts to the triangle between my legs. "You’re so beautiful, I want to eat you up."
I swallow.
"I want to lick your pussy and suck on your clit, then stab my tongue inside your slit. I want to stuff my fingers inside you and ensure you’re stretched enough to receive my cock. I want to suckle on your tits and twist your nipples and violate the hole between your ass cheeks."
My stomach flutters, and my toes curl. My skin feels so sensitive that if he touches me now, I’m going to burst into a million tiny sparks.
"I want to wrap my fingers around your throat"—he drags his fingers around my neckline, and I shiver—"and squeeze so you get enough oxygen to fuel the building orgasm in you… slowly… slowly"—he cups the nape of my neck—"to the edge, so when I bury myself inside of you, you’ll beg to come. But I won’t let you."
"You won’t?" I gasp.
"Not until I’ve teased you and taunted you and built up the anticipation, the expectation, the need that builds inside you, layer upon layer, until it consumes you and eats at you from the inside to get out, and then—"
"Then?" I breathe.
"Then, nothing." He releases me, steps back, turns and begins to walk away.
I blink. "What are you doing?"
"Going to bed, of course."
I gape, then anger crashes over me. I jump down from the island, and my cut-up clothes slither to the ground, leaving me without a stitch on. I ignore it, race forward, and launch myself at him. Of course, he hears me coming, so he turns and catches me. I raise my hand, intent on slapping him, but he throws me over his shoulder. Again.
"The hell? What are you doing?"
"Your anger is the most cleansing thing in the world, Little Dove."
"I’m not your Dove. And I’ll give you anger, you bosshole." I begin to rain blows on his back, his side, wherever I can reach. It makes no difference. He passes by Tiny, who raises his head and looks at us, then goes back to slurping from his water bowl. Argh! Not that he’d be able to help me. No one's going to stop what's going to happen—this man is going to ravish me tonight, and I’m going to love every bit of it.
More moisture slides down my inner thigh. His shoulder muscles ripple. Without breaking stride, he runs his fingers between my legs and brushes my throbbing clit. He doesn’t say a word, but he increases his pace until he’s almost jogging. My cheeks turn fiery. He’s noticed how turned on I am. And he can’t wait to claim me. I squeeze my eyes shut. And I find that so very sexy. So erotic. Oh god, oh, god, oh— He bursts into his room and kicks the door shut behind him. Then turns and locks it.
"What are you doing?" I squeak.
Without replying, he stalks toward the massive bed and throws me down on it. I bounce once, my arms and legs akimbo. My hair falls over my face, and I blow it out of the way. I jump up—my stilettos sink into the bed, but I don’t care—and throw up my fists.
He unbuttons the first button of his shirt, then another. Then, in that one-handed move that makes my insides squeeze together, he reaches behind himself and yanks off his shirt. He toes off his shoes, then shoves down his pants, his boxers and his socks in one sweep. When he straightens, I freeze. H-o-l-y hell. You’ve seen that scene where Daniel Craig emerges from the sea in that James Bond movie whose name I can’t recall, or a young, bare-chested Tom Cruise in Top Gun, or Channing Tatum in Magic Mike. Hell, pick any shirtless, hot man chest from any film and multiply that by a hundred—no, a thousand—and it wouldn’t compare to seeing Sir in the flesh. His shoulders are bunched, his chest tattooed and ripped, his abs a work of art, which should be cast in a mold and preserved for eternity. I gaze dreamily at his concave stomach, trim waist, and those powerful thighs—between which, his monster cock points straight at me. I gulp. The blood drains from my face. "Th-that… thing—"
"You mean mythang?"
I glance up in time to see his lips twitch.
"Did you crack a joke?" I whisper.
"I’m getting ready to crackyouin half, baby."
