Page 34 of Tarnished Reign

I dip the spoon into the dessert, scooping a tiny amount onto the utensil and then holding it to her mouth. She watches me for a moment, and I think she's going to take the spoon from me and feed herself. But then she parts her full lips, her small pink tongue poking out slightly, and I slowly slide the spoon into her mouth. She closes her lips around the utensil and sucks as I pull it out, transfixed.

She gives a low groan of appreciation and damn, my dick is so hard I could use it as a hammer.

“That's delicious,” she says.

“Yes,” I say, “it was.”

When we finally leave the restaurant, the sun is high in the afternoon sky. It's warm, but there is a breeze cooling our skin. Adriana lifts her hair like she did in the restaurant, and her eyes drift closed as the soft wind blows across her nape. She shivers slightly, and her lips turn up in a small smile. Tiny goosebumps break out along her arms and up her neck. She lets her hair drop and gives another soft shiver.

I watch, fascinated.

My Littleblue has a secret weakness.

One that I’ve discovered through this meal and by watching her closely. Adriana, for all her innocence and lack of experience, is a sensual creature. She's tried to live a good life. She's tried not to get drunk. She doesn't like to be out of control.

She avoided men like a good girl because her mother told her they were pigs.

Yet just the caress of the breeze on her skin is enough to have her break out in goosebumps of pleasure. The taste of chocolate has her moaning as if she's having an orgasm. A sip of sparkling wine and her eyes flutter closed in delight.

Yes, my Littleblue is a sensual creature, and she's been starving herself.

I'm going to turn her into a glutton for touch, taste, and scent. A greedy hoarder of orgasms and sensual delights.

Then, when she's addicted to feeling good, she won't be able to resist me.

I'll make her mine, and I'll stamp myself on every single centimeter of her body.

9

ADRIANA

As we drive back toward the bay, the air in the car grows heavy and thick as if we’re brewing trouble or maybe witchcraft. At first, I worry we’re going to fight because I’m unsure what the tension means.

Slowly, I realize, the thick, unyielding air isn’t about that. This tension between us, so heavy it’s like a suffocating blanket, isn’t about violence; it’s about sex.

It weighs on me and presses against my skin, heating it. My breath comes in ever increasing puffs, and my heart picks up speed. My lips are dry, and I must lick them repeatedly.

Now and again, I risk a glance at the man driving. At Dimitri.

He looks like the same intimidating, bossy asshole that he did before. Except, a muscle ticks in his cheek, and he blows out breath every now and again, as if he’s chairing a meeting and needs to let off a little steam. His leg bounces, and there is a new tension in the lines of his body.

He’s radiating a pent-up energy. Lust? Desire? Need?

God, we have only just met, and yet the crackling energy between us could power a small city.

We’ re yearning to touch; I can sense it in both of us.

The thought makes me tingle. All through the meal I tried not to stare at him, but seated opposite him, the light of the afternoon hitting him so perfectly, it was hard not to.

He’s beautiful. Big. Powerful, so fucking strong; it makes me want. Yearn.

Sitting opposite this man made me feel things I haven't felt before. It confused me that my body seemed to want him so much when the whole situation is such a mess.

Am I sick in the head? Twisted somehow? I’ve spent my life avoiding the male gaze, and now I want the gaze of a … what? Mafia man? If he is Russian organized crime as his name and slight accent might suggest, then he’s what? Bratva? Whatever name he’d give himself and the organization he works for, he’s clearly not an upstanding, law-abiding citizen.

I always thought I was a good person. Decent. I tried to be, at least. Tried to live up to the standards my mother set for me. I thought when I found myself attracted to a man this way, he’d perhaps be a teacher. Or a doctor. Someone quietly spoken and kind. He’d have eyes that crinkled when he laughed, and he’d drive something nondescript, vote vaguely liberal, and give to the food bank.

Instead, I find myself lusting after a man with a body that screams power. A face that screams don’t fuck with me and a vibe that is utterly terrifying. He must work out regularly, and hard, to look that way. I’m wet for a man who is always followed by armed men guarding him. A man who slapped another for merely looking at me the wrong way.

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