Page 62 of SINS & Temptation

His thrusts start slow, agonizingly slow, and I bite back a moan. I need more, but I’m sure as hell not begging for it. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

With a swift move, he rolls to his back, propping me on top of him, forcing my legs to spread wide in a squat. Holy hell, he’s deep.

He pumps into me, his hips driving into mine, shoving his monster cock in and out, in and out. Each thrust shreds away every last thread of control as pain and pleasure rip me wide, leaving me wet. So wet.

“Now, fuck me, Bella. Show me just how much your sweet pussy hates me,” he growls.

His hands fondle my breasts, then glide over my ass, urging me to pick up the pace.

Oh, my pussy hates him all right.

And she hates him a lot.

Chapter Twenty-Four

KENNEDY

I stare at the array of clothes around the room, my head pounding.

I vaguely remember a driver bringing me here. Correction—a driver and a bodyguard, both as mountainous as Enzo. Fucker probably knows I was thinking of running.

Not that I could run anywhere, considering Enzo had to carry me to the car.

Me, my shoes—because if the bastard is shoving me off to Andre D’Angelo, it won’t be in six-inch come-fuck-me heels made by Jimmy fucking Choo.

This guy, Ricardo, fusses with my hair, sweeping it up, then letting it fall, before his hands brushing along my waist and across my back. Not in a sensual way. More like he’s sizing me up.

For the slaughter.

I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t so hungover, I’d be a freaking out by now. But with this much alcohol pumping through my veins, it’s a wonder I’m still standing up.

Ricardo holds one gown against me, then another, and yet another. “Your body is exquisite,” he says, his accent vaguely French. He gestures flamboyantly. “You’ll look good in absolutely anything.”

“Thank you,” I say, annoyed. I’m seriously not sure what all the fuss is about. Is this some kind of weird rich-people kink? Playing with me like I’m his favorite Barbie?

“Any preference for color?” he asks, his eyes sparkling.

My shoulders rise and fall, deflated. “Got something that matches a silver platter?”

He laughs so hard he nearly shoots champagne through his nose. The sound of laughter is boisterous and genuine, infectious in its warmth. Despite myself, a smile tugs at my lips, breaking through the heavy weight holding it down.

Ricardo taps my chin with the crook of his finger. “Remove your clothes.”

All traces of a smile vanish, replaced by a jolt of fear. “What?”

“Just to your bra and panties. For now.” He waggles his brows.

My fingers dig into the fabric of my blouse, clutching it closed. I don’t care how the man seems; it’s just not happening.

When I hesitate, he spins me around to face the mirror. “You’re pretty, eh?”

Okay, now he’s just pissing me off. Like he’s not so sure if I’m pretty. Then I catch my full-length reflection in the mirror, and now I’m not so sure, either.

My clothes are in shambles, I’ve got makeup smeared across one eye like a raccoon’s mask, and my hair is such a tangled disaster that not even rats would nest in it.

When I frown, he leans in, the voice of reassurance. “But when I’m done with you, you’ll be irresistible enough to eat.”

“Like Little Red Riding Hood.”

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