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“You hatethis?” I thrust again, and she sobs harder.
“No. I hateyou.”
“You want this?”
“Yes. Oh my God, yes.”
Her breasts are in my face, and I grab one and guide it into my mouth, sucking and biting at her nipple and drawing out almost uncontrollable moans from her throat.
Her taste, her scent, hereverything, rises around me until there is nothing but her. And this.
I grab at her ass, keeping her in place as my thrusting movements ramp up. “If you tell me to, right now, I will stop, Bianca. And I will release you from those cuffs.”
Her breathing rasps in the air, matching mine, as I continue to fuck her and wait for her response.
“Well?” I can’t hold on much longer.
I need to come. Her channel clutches at me, and her whole body does this strange arching shudder.
Fuck, she’s so damn fucking hot. I can’t…
“Don’t stop. Oh, God,pleasedon’t stop.”
Her words and the accompanying cry tumble me over the edge, and I growl as I come inside her. She follows me only a second later, tight heat searing my flesh as the climax takes us both and her muscles clench in a frenzy around me.
I collapse onto her as our bodies still shudder and jerk. My chest heaves as I drag in breaths, then I roll to one side so I don’t crush her. Somehow, I manage to reach up and release the cuffs.
I expect her to immediately launch off the bed, get as far away from me as she can. But she doesn’t. She curls into my torso, her freed hands stroking my chest as her wayward hair gets in my eyes and my mouth. Her racing heart beating in time with mine is a strange comfort I can’t explain.
For some reason, instead of pushing her away, I wrap my arms around her and stroke her back and hold her tightly. As if I never want to let her go.
Affection is an emotion I can’t afford to show, and I’m certain I am about to pay for my moment of weakness.
14
“It’s hard to hate someone once you understand them.”
Lucy Christopher,Stolen
Bianca
Is this Stockholm syndrome?I slept with my mob boss husband—the man who kidnapped me off the street and forced me to marry him. The man I keep saying I hate.
And yet, not only did I allow him to touch me—fuckme—I wanted him to do it. I wanted his hard, hot flesh embedded deeply inside me, with a desire crazier and more intense than anything I’ve ever felt.
What is wrong with me? I’m sick. I must be, to have allowed that. I must be, to want more of the same. More. Right now. Only, it’s not going to happen, because I’ve woken up alone in the bed.
I rolled over to touch him, and there’s nothing beneath the sheets but emptiness.
I thought I felt him in the night, his muscled arms surrounding me. I vaguely recall snuggling back into him, feeling his fingertips stroke down my back, hearing his soft laugh in my ear. A laugh that shifted my hair and tickled my neck.
Did I smile at that? Did I actually smile and make a contented moan as I pushed my ass back into his groin and thought about what we might do in the morning after we’d slept a little?
Fuck. I’m definitely sick. And this has to be Stockholm syndrome. There’s no other explanation for this level of crazy pinging around in my head.
I lie in bed, thinking about Rio, wondering what it is about him that fascinates me and draws me into his orbit.
Because, no matter what he threatens—death, torture, destruction of the animal shelter and the careers of everyone who works there—there is nothing that could truly stop me saying no to him if I really wanted to.
