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He took her lower lip in his mouth and sank his teeth into her flesh until tears sprang from her eyes. His hand crept into her hair. “I fucking need to own you, Peyton.”
“Declan, listen to me. I have to see your tattoo. I need to see it now. Please, please, you have to let me see it.”
Everything about this was wrong. She was an FBI analyst, and he was a criminal of the most notorious type. A hitman. He killed people for a living.
His touch should have revolted her.
But it didn’t.
She craved it like air. Her body understood only its own selfish needs, but there was something even more insidious between them now, and the magnitude of it frightened her.
Torn between his world and reality, Peyton was forced to choose reality.
“You have to release me—”
“No. I need this, Peyton."
She whipped her gaze up at him and saw only the truth in his eyes.
But the loss of his touch when he moved to the armoire destroyed her. He retrieved some stuff she couldn’t see.
She sobbed when he sucked her nipples, drawing them so deep into his mouth that her pussy spasmed for him. She whimpered in awe when he clamped the engorged peaks in the center of her breasts, sending her into a whirlwind of such thrilling pain that she begged for more.
Oh god.
She cried when he left deep red bite marks all over her neck and around her breasts, then at her mons when he dropped to his haunches. She thought she was going to die when he opened his mouth on her hot and soaked pussy, but instead of biting her there as well, he sucked so gently that tears of a different kind slid down her face.
He kissed her softly and touched her tenderly as if she were a piece of treasure. A delicate flower.
Overcome with shyness, Peyton tried to close her legs when the scent of her arousal lingered in the air between them.
Growling at her, he took his favorite crop to her inner thighs, whipping her, yet being so careful about her dripping pussy that he cupped his hand over her folds to protect her.
He inflicted his brand of pain on every part of her body, but not on her pussy.
But the touch of his calloused palm against her clit reduced her to a level of wantonness she worried she would never return from.
“Come in my hand, kitten. That’s it. Again,” he said, biting and sucking a line from the side of her neck to over her shoulder.
“Declan,” she sobbed, angry at herself for her weakness. She couldn’t stop herself from climaxing. Over and over again.
Declan collected the essence of her cum, then brought his hand to his mouth and drank from the dew in his palm.
When he was done with her, when her body was fully branded by his mouth, his teeth, and his crop, which he used agonizingly on her thighs, he soaked his fingers with her wetness and spread it over the parts of her body where he had left his harshest touch.
His bite marks. The lashings of his crop between her legs.
The burn of her liquid arousal on the stinging welts sent her spiraling out of control again. She hissed and moaned, rattling at the restraints to be set free so she could hide her ignominy.
He couldn’t keep doing this to her.
“Declan,” she shouted, weak but determined. “I need to see your tattoo, please.” Suddenly, she was incredibly certain of what she had seen.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
Like a sleek predator, his charm deceptive and his violence sophisticated, he pulled a wide back chair to the center of the room and sat down. He leaned back and spread his long, muscular legs wide apart.
Peyton stopped breathing when he unbuckled his belt, unzipped his jeans, and reached for his cock. Unearthing his substantial length from his snowy-white boxer briefs, Declan started to stroke his cock. Just once before, he released the hold of his hand on his shaft.
