Page 57 of Wicked Fury

“Let’s get one thing straight,” I spit out, straining against the ropes, “I will never be yours.”

“Never is a long time, angel.” He prowls closer, the heat from his body radiating over me. “The way I see it, you already are.” His hands trace over my curves, a possessive touch that leaves no room for doubt. There’s still an edge to him, but the anger that poured out of him when he entered the room is now only a simmer.

“I need to hear you say it,” he murmurs, the rough pad of his thumb brushing over my bottom lip, which I bite out of habit more than anxiety.

“Say what? That you need to tie up girls to get your way?” The words drip like poison from my tongue, but it doesn’t deter him. If anything, it fuels the fire in his eyes.

“No. I don’t tie up girls. Just you,” he corrects, a devilish grin playing on his lips as he leans down, so close his breath fans across my flushed cheeks. “Say you belong to me.”

The room spins, or maybe it’s just my head, lost in this maddening whirlpool of desire and anger. “Aren’t you supposed to be livid with me right now? Instead of trying to seduce me?”

His chuckle vibrates through me, a sound so confident it roils my insides. “Two things can be true at once.” His proximity is doing strange things to my resolve. He’s practically looking right through me, fierce and unyielding. A strangled sound leaves my throat. I need him to touch me, kiss me, anything.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I’m aware of is Lincoln, his watching me with a predatory glint and the cold, smooth handle of the knife that he runs teasingly over the quivering skin between my thighs. The metal is a shock against the heat of my arousal, a shiver-inducing contrast that has me biting down on my lip to stifle a moan.

“Lincoln,” I gasp out, my voice nothing more than a ragged whisper.

“Shh, angel.” His voice is warm honey with an edge of steel, smirking as if he’s privy to some secret joke.

My back arches off the bed, seeking more contact, more of anything he’s willing to give. But he’s in control here, always has been. With a slow, torturous precision, the handle presses against me, slipping inside with a deliberate slowness that has my toes curling, my fingers digging into the rope that’s binding me.

“God, Lincoln, please,” I plead, caught between the fear of the forbidden object and the sheer ecstasy of being filled, stretched, dominated by it.

“Please what?” He leans over me, his short-cropped facial hair brushing against my neck, sending another wave of goosebumps across my already sensitive skin. “You have to tell me what you want.”

All I can see is his intense eyes, and his arm moving rhythmically as he fucks me with the handle of the knife. It’s wrong, so dangerously wrong, but the threat only serves to spike my pleasure higher.

“More,” I manage to choke out, but just as the tension coils tight within me, ready to snap, he withdraws the handle, leaving me empty, wanting.

“Almost had it, didn’t you?” His taunting tone is sharper than the blade he wields, and I can do nothing but groan and writhe, chasing a release that he holds just out of reach.

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” I growl, my body alight with an unsatisfied need that he’s orchestrated with devilish expertise.

“Isn’t that what you need from me?” His voice is low, rough, every bit the demon he claims to be. “To be pushed over the edge? To feel something dangerous?”

“Damn you,” I hiss as he traces a path up my torso with the flat side of the blade, circling around my nipple piercing.

“Fuck, angel,” he finally breathes out, his hand sliding down to cup between my thighs, where my pussy is soaked for him. “I need to be inside of you.”

His words strike a chord, igniting desire that rages through my veins. And I hate how much I crave the spark in his eyes when he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world that can quench his thirst.

“Then do it,” I challenge, my voice a mix of dare and desire. “Do it and get it over with.”

But even as I speak, I know it’s not that simple. With Lincoln, it never is.

His grip tightens around my throat, and I can feel his cock, hard and unyielding as he does just as I’ve taunted him to. He lets go of me long enough to unbutton his jeans and shove them down. I don’t get even one deep breath in before he drives into me, his movements forceful, claiming what he believes is his. My back arches involuntarily, pushing against the roughness of his touch and causing the ropes to pull against my delicate skin.

“Mine,” he growls with each thrust, his eyes are nothing but fierce possession as he cups my tits and brings one of my pierced nipples up to his mouth. He bites and sucks on the sensitive bud, causing my hips to buck up against his.

“I’m nobody’s,” I manage to rasp out, even though words are becoming harder to form under the weight of his body and the relentless pressure on my neck, ensuring that he leaves his mark on me.

I can sense the climax building within me, an unstoppable force that threatens to tear me apart, and I absolutely hate that he’s the reason for it. But it’s not just physical; there’s something terrifyingly intimate about the way he watches me, like he’s seeing straight through to every dark corner of my soul as he slams inside me.

“Say it, Iris,” Lincoln demands again, his voice a low rumble against the sound of our bodies colliding. In fact, it sounds suspiciously like a plea.

“Never,” I spit back defiantly, even as my vision starts to blur at the edges, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter like a spring ready to snap.

And then it does. The explosion of sensation obliterates thought, reason, everything but the overwhelming intensity of the moment. It’s raw, it’s basic instinct, and as much as I want to deny it, it feels like coming home.

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