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“As pretty as always,” he says. “Even more beautiful as a woman than as an innocent girl.”
The innocent part isn’t lost on me. He took that from me, but only emotionally. He introduced me to betrayal, pain, and grief and taught me that no one can be trusted. Least of all him. That part of my innocence he stole violently.
The physical part, the part that has only known one man? That part, I gave to him. I’m still not sure why. I want to believe it was the alcohol or that I just wanted to give him a last first to stop his warped game. Yet I know that’s not true. I wanted it to be him. The girl who fell in love with him was still living somewhere in my chest, but he killed her when he murdered my father.
He straightens, taking his time. I can’t read the expression in his eyes, but his laser stare burns into my soul. I swallow when he slowly crosses the floor and stops in front of me.
I was right. He’s large in physical form and in presence. The room is too small for him. His muscles bunch under his clothes. Where his sleeves are folded back, his skin is tanned and embossed with veins. Angelo Russo has always been a tough, hardened man, even at twenty. I think he was already a man when he was only a boy. Now, he’s a god. A powerful one. Nothing short of a monster.
He reaches out and dips a finger under the towel where it covers my breasts. I try to pull back, but he’s too fast. Too strong. With a single tug, he yanks me against him. My belly heats with fear and something else, something like a distant echo of a forbidden pleasure.
I look at his face. His eyes are the color of molasses. The irises are so dark they bleed into the black of his pupils. The intensity in his gaze as he measures me is startling. Frightening. He’s only twenty-three, yet he looks like a man with the experience of one of forty. I know the things he’s done. I know the things he’s seen. No wonder he’s too wise and too old for his age.
Pressing my palms on his chest, I try to create distance between us, but he traps me against the steel length of his body with a hand on my lower back, continuing to pull at the towel until it gives way. The edges fall open, revealing my breasts, but he doesn’t look away from my eyes. He reads my reaction as if he’s curious about what he’ll find, whether I’ll give him defiance or permission.
Exposed to the cool air in the room, my nipples harden. The towel slips down to my hips, his hand on my back and his body pressed against mine at the front holding it up. I suck in a breath. I have to be clever. If I run, I’m fucked. That’s what he wants. I sense it. He wants to hunt and catch me. Isn’t that what we’ve always been doing? I’ve been hiding, and he’s been stalking.
A silent battle rages between us. He breaks our eye contact first, sweeping his gaze down to my naked curves. When he reaches out, I strain in his hold, but he tightens his grip on my back in silent warning. If he was a wolf, I swear he’d growl. Maybe he’d sink his teeth into my shoulder.
Knowing I have no chance of fighting, I keep still. My pulse hammers in my temples as I bide my time. Ever so gently, he brushes his knuckles over a nipple. The hard tip extends, the areola tightening. His cock grows hard against my stomach. It’s a size and a fit I remember well, no matter how hard I try to forget.
I can’t prevent the tremor that runs through me when he pulls an inch away and lifts his hand from my back. The towel drops to the floor. Goosebumps race over my body. He rakes a path over me with his gaze, all the while rubbing his knuckles over my nipple. When he fixes his attention on the triangle between my legs, his eyes darken with possession and lust.
I don’t shave there. I won’t ever again. Not as long as I’m branded with his mark. The knowledge of his seal being there seems to be enough for him. His lips tilt with satisfaction as he smooths the palm of his free hand over my stomach and spears his fingers into the curls that cover my sex. When he closes his fingers in a fist, the pull makes me go on tiptoes. It doesn’t hurt, not much, but when he uses the leverage to yank me closer, I can’t help but yelp.
I catch his shoulders to keep my balance. The knuckle of his middle finger rests on my clit. I try to ignore how it feels. It’s impossible when he pulls harder and at the same time finds the right spot. I’ve lost yet another round even before he loosens his fingers and circles that button with his knuckle—teasing, testing.
He fastens his other hand on my breast, keeping me in place. My body responds to him, and I don’t like it. My clit swells, and my folds turn slick. I don’t like what that means or what that makes me. I hate that I like how he looks at the work of his hand, studying his own actions with carnal interest.
Needing to stop this before it goes further, I push harder on his chest, but he easily yanks the towel off my hair and weaves his fingers through the long, wet tresses. My neck arches as he pulls my head back and holds me in place. His focus shifts from my sex to my face. The pressure of his knuckle increases as he leans closer and lowers his head.
The softness and warmth of his mouth on mine catches me by surprise. I didn’t expect the kiss. At least not one as tender. When he slants his lips over mine and parts them with gentle but insistent pressure, a gasp catches in my throat. The stroke of his tongue lights an instant fire that spreads with languid heat through my veins.
Fisting his hand in my hair, he tears his mouth from mine and stares down at me with an expression so dark it makes me shiver. The touch of his knuckle disappears. I heave a sigh of both disappointment and relief when something cold and hard replaces flesh and bone. I look down. He’s rubbing me with his ring, bringing me closer to the edge with the insignia of his family name.
This is wrong. I open my mouth to protest, but when I lift my gaze to his, he’s studying me with wicked intention. He wants me to fight. He wants me to lose. He wants to show me how easily he can defeat me. So, I give him the opposite. I relax in his hold. I press my knees together and arch my hips forward, chasing the friction. My eyes drift closed as pleasure slowly spreads, overtaking objections and shame.
He shakes me hard. His command is harsh, angry almost. “Open your eyes.”
His tight grip on my hair makes my eyes water when I oblige.
“That’s right,” he says, increasing the pressure of his ring on my clit. “Show me how you come for me.”
A wave of pleasure rushes through me, contracting my muscles. My orgasm is sweet and agonizing at the same time. He’s not smiling with satisfaction now. Victory is shining like a burning flame in his eyes as he drags his ring down the length of my slit, gathering my arousal.
Watching me, he presses his ring on his mouth before licking his lips clean in a slow, fluent motion. He tilts my head to the side and draws his nose along the arch of my neck to the shell of my ear, inhaling deeply.
“Happy birthday,cara,” he whispers, planting a kiss on my temple.
As soon as I can stand on my wobbly legs, I step away from him. He allows me to escape, letting my hair slip through his fingers. Turning my back on him, I walk to the dressing room and pull underwear on. His huge form fills the doorframe as I dress in a sweater and stretch pants. He’s studying me with narrowed eyes and his arms crossed over his chest as I brush out my hair.
When I’m done, I walk back to him, stop, and wait. He doesn’t budge. I’m acutely aware of the bulge in his pants and the tension radiating from him.
“If you’re waiting for me to return the favor, you’ll wait a long time,” I say.
His lips curve into a humorless smile. “You reckon? I can make you go down on your knees right this moment and swallow my cock.”
I lift my chin to meet his gaze. “Why don’t you?”
