Page 82 of Tempest

Ardyn

Tempest doesn’t closethe bathroom door.

Like an idiot, I stand in the middle of the room, stunned into silence.

Nobody talks to me like the way he just did. Well, nobody but my abductors, and back then, I was a kid with the barest grasp of bad words.

But Tempest, he took those bad words and caused a build-up of heat between my legs, so intense that I’m afraid to move.

I’m not supposed to like it when I’m insulted, and I’m certainly not allowed to enjoy the way Tempest manhandled me last night. Like I wasn’t fragile. Like I was a rag doll meant to be pulled apart and left to fend for myself. No one does that with me—Ardyn Kaine, the fractured heiress.

Tempest pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion, the muscles in his back tensing and flexing. Scratches mar one flank, four perfect curves like someone clawed into his skin, in pleasure or in pain.

They’re not from me. My nails are too short and bitten to the quick to mark that kind of territory.

The thought of someone else, another woman, gaining access to his bare skin makes that heat at my center unfurl into the small of my back, spreading its tentacles and strangling my insides. That he could’ve done it between his dismissal of me and seeing him now turns that strangulation into sickness.

I was blindfolded then, covered and bound. He could’ve already had those marks on him. Same with the small bruise at the back of his neck and dirt stains all across his back, as if he allowed a woman to ride him while he bucked on the forest floor behind his cottage, rutting and sweating under a full moon.

The hair at the back of my neck rises as a foul taste enters my mouth. I have the vague notion that this is what jealousy must taste like until all my thoughts scatter like a spooked flock of birds when Tempest drops his pants.

He’s not wearing underwear. A perfect, melon-shaped butt appears out of the stained denim, smooth and unmarked compared to the rest of him. He stretches his arms over his head, his back cracking and torso twisting before releasing a satisfied groan and dropping his arms to his side.

My mouth goes dry.

Tempest steps into the shower, and I peek at the shadow of his balls and his impressive length. A clear glass panel separates the shower from the rest of the space, fogging up with the intense temperature of the spray. I’m drawn to the steam, my steps wide but tentative, as I approach the bathroom. Then before better sense gets the best of me, I step over the threshold.

Flashes of his body come through the condensation, his arms going up to his hair and the thick ropes of muscle undulating under his skin. He tips his head back, his striking profile set in perfect relief as his hair flattens against his head.

I don’t know why he’s decided to shower in my dorm room, but I’m starting to wish he’ll never shower anywhere else again.

Tempest turns his head, his eyes blazing at me through the fog.

He says nothing, simply waiting for me to speak.

My lips part to make up some excuse, though it’s obvious why I’m here. What I’m doing.

It’s pointless to try to say anything. I’m trembling, my belly’s quaking, and my bones are liquifying the longer I remain under his stare.

I know what he wants. What he told me to do. With shaking fingers, I give him what he desires.

My thumbs hook under my straps, and I pull them down. My dress, the simple cotton that it is, flows freely with gravity once I release them.

I’m left in a simple strapless white bra and underwear, but under Tempest’s scrutiny, I’m wearing a see-through scarlet teddy.

I gulp.

Tempest dips his chin, slowly stepping out of the spray and out from the glass borders. I can see him clearly now at the entrance to the shower, droplets running down his nose and cheeks and collecting at the base of his sharp collarbone.

He crooks a finger. “Come here.”

I go to him with shallow breaths until we’re almost toe-to-toe. His hand, wet but hot like fire, clamps down on my shoulder and spins me. I gasp at the sudden movement, my breath cut off when he halts me with the same hand.

We’re both looking in the mirror across from us, fogged over, but our forms discernable. His face hovers over mine. I’m able to study the arctic tundra of his expression before his hands start to move, unclasping my bra, the worn cotton falling to the floor at my feet.

He does the same to my underwear, hooking the hem and pushing down until they fall. The brush of fabric against my thighs makes me shiver, and I tilt my head against Tempest’s chest until he grasps both sides of my face and forces me back down.

“Look at yourself,” his voice rumbles into my ear. “And don’t stop until I give you permission to do so.”

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