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Then he pulls away, and his gaze drops to the damned choker and stays there. When he reaches for it and says, “Ask me to fuck you, Skye.” I slap his hand away.
“No,” I practically snarl, anger rising in my chest. Suddenly, I can’t stand him. Can’t stand the nearness of him and what it does to me.
Out of sheer frustration that he should have any effect on me, that I should feel liquid heat build in my belly at the mere idea of belonging to him, I slap his cheek.
Blue fire sparks to life in his stare and it consumes me. I try to hit him again, but he snatches my wrist an inch from his face.
Turning it, he bites the tender flesh until I wince. And, still, his eyes burn me and make me ache for him.
“Tell me to fuck you, Skye,” he repeats, this time through gritted teeth.
“If you want it so bad, take it. Take what you want. Nothing’s in your way. I belong to you, remember?”
“Tell me.”
“Oh my God, you want my consent. Is that it?” I laugh. “Why do you need my consent now? None of this is my consent. No one asked me if I wanted my father to die, or if I wanted to sell myself like a thing just to keep my sister a—”
Arran’s eyes narrow as he processes what I’ve said. What I was about to say. And I realize that if I don’t act now, I may have just given away too much.
Before he can utter a single word, I pounce. My arms go around his neck and I press my lips to his. If I ever doubted what he said about a kiss being the point of no return, his immediate and combustive response to it is all the confirmation I need.
I understand him now, because, damn me, I can’t help but respond to it too. It’s a primal physical reaction, an explosion of need and desire deep inside me that’s brought on by the feel of his tongue sliding across mine. The taste of him in my mouth. His breath blowing into my lungs every time he exhales.
His kiss overrides any sense of self, of dignity and pride. I no longer care that he owns me or that I’ve been robbed of choices. All that matters in this moment is the hunger to be possessed by him. I want to be his, and if I was given the choice, right here, right now, I’d still be his.
With his hands on my ass, Arran lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist as he walks us to the wall, slamming me into it. He deepens the kiss as he grinds into me, and I moan from the pleasure of the friction against my sex.
He slides his hand between us, and I’m so acutely aware of every touch, I cry out without breaking away from his lips.
After releasing himself from his pants, he pushes aside the scrap of fabric covering my pussy and thrusts. This time, I do break the kiss. I gasp at the intrusion of his cock inside me, stretching me, ramming into me painfully, achingly hard.
But he doesn’t give me time to catch my breath. I don’t think he can, and I don’t want him to. I like this too much.
He drops his face into the crook of my neck as he hammers into me. Distantly, I register the sound of fabric tearing, a frame falling and glass breaking. I’m mindless, unable to do anything but hold on to him and let the beast in him find its release.
When it does, it’s with a guttural growl. He tenses, his thrusts slowing but each more powerful than the last. I can feel his cock pulsating as he pumps himself into me, filling me with his cum, just like he promised.
As his orgasm ebbs, he pulls back slightly and peers into my face. The strain he showed just a few minutes ago is now gone.
He cups my cheek as something strange passes over his expression. When he leans in to kiss me again, I expect the same raw passion, but all he does is graze my lips achingly sweet. Quick and barely there, but I feel it all the way to the marrow of my bones.
His lips part as if he’s about to say something important, something that could change the dynamic of our relationship. But he doesn’t get a chance, because a knock at the door interrupts us.
“Arran, you in there?”
Arran’s mouth tugs into a straight line. “It’s Ruslan.” He pulls out of me, and warm liquid trickles from my sex and down my thigh. “Give me a moment,” he yells to the man.
From a cabinet, he produces a roll of paper towels. Tearing one off, he hands it to me.
I wipe quickly and adjust my dress. When I’m somewhat decent, I nod to him and he opens the door.
Ruslan enters, giving me a side-glance as he does. Probably because he can tell what we were doing in here.
“Landon’s at the hospital,” he says to Arran. “Soon as he’s stitched up, he’ll be on his way to Mommy’s house.”
“All done discreetly, I assume.”
“Very. But it’s costing you a lot of money to keep people from talking.”
