Page 24 of Claimed By Rage

What Rebel said earlier tonight is only halfway true. If things were different between us—better—I wouldn’t want to cause her any pain. But if she’s too goddamn stubborn to accept my pleasure, if pain is all I’m able to provide, if it’s the one thing she’ll relent in our endless game of tug of war… I’ll take it.

Her pain will become my promise.

Celia holds my stare. “The only thing he’s good for is his mouth.”

Fire burns through my veins. She’s trying to hurt me back,and it’s working.I hiss through my teeth, “Guess we’re a perfect match, then. Your mouth is?—”

Mine.

I switch from using the wordperfectat the last second. “—good enough.”

Her nostrils flare and satisfaction curls in my chest. That’s right, give it to me. Everything you’re feeling. Eyes on me. I want to watch you unravel and taste the bitterness on your tongue. I barely hold back the rumble in my chest as I drag her away from the group.

Enough socializing.

“What are you doing? Let me go!” Celia trips over her feet, so I quickly toss her over my shoulder, smacking her perfect ass once it’s high in the air. The sound ricochets across the room, drawing attention again. There’s something about Celia and me that makes our collision messy—it’s loud and painful, all long limbs and sharp teeth—bleeding out from the two of us and infecting the room. People get handsy on the dance floor. Mouths meet. Skirts lift. It’s a chaotic frizzle of energy that makes me want to smack her ass again to hear thatpopof sound, the delicious gasp on her lips.

But the difference between what’s going on everywhere else in the room and what’s going on with the woman I’ve chosen is simple: they all give their enthusiastic consent to be touched, fucked,desired.

Celia hasn’t given me that permission, not explicitly. It’s pretty clear that aside from my vigorous clit-licking, she doesn’t want anything to do with me—and it makes absolutely no fucking sense.

“We’re going home.” I carry her across the ballroom to the foyer. The grand staircase is stupidly elaborate—something Celia’s brother Mikhail insisted on when we built the place, actually—flaring out at both the bottom and the top with a curve that mirrors a woman’s waistline. A lush burgundy carpet drapes down the center, widening along with the stairs at the base. It belongs in a mansion, not an underground swingers club, but Mikhail paid for the building, so he got the final say in the blueprints.

All I remember about the reasoning for the staircase is some bullshit about allowing a woman hermoment. Whatever the fuck that means.

The one I’m with would probably shove me over the railing in one of hermoments.

I grab Celia’s supple ass as I take her up the stairs to the second floor. Guests aren’t allowed up here, which is perfect because it means that it’s quiet. The bass from main floor doesn’t permeate the upper floor or its walls, so the only sounds are my footfalls and Celia’s yelps as she tries to steady herself across my back. I get elbowed in the spine more than once, but I grit my teeth and carry on.

If I let her go, she’ll bolt.

“This isn’t how tonight was supposed to go.” My chest heaves as I slam my palm on the scanner to open the private suite in the west wing.Mysuite.Ours.Fuck.

“I’m sorry, does sexual assault offend you?” The venom in Celia’s voice slips into my veins, toxic and unwelcome. “You do a pretty good job of hiding it.”

“I’m not hiding anything, Celia.” Once we’re inside the steel outer door, I charge for my bedroom, the air around us pulsing. My skin’s hot. My body’s tight. I can’t take a full breath without smelling her pussy. I’m not sure if it’s because my face is near her thighs or I’m that goddamn horny, butfuck.

She makes me want to tear out of my skin and bury myself in hers.

I toss her onto the bed and can’t bring myself to look at her. Staring at the wall over the headboard, I clench my jaw so tightly that I feel it behind my eyes. “You’re sleeping here in my bed. I don’t want a single fucking complaint or your ass will be darker than your knees.” It’s a threat that feels like a twisted, gnarled thing inside my chest. I don’t like it, but I don’t know how else to get through to this woman.

If I held her face in my hands and kissed her, begged her to stay the night, she’d spit in my face.

She reacts like I expect, kicking her leg out at me.

I grab her ankle before she connects and glare at the bottom of her shoe. Red soles, black straps, bright buckles. I bought these for her a week ago but never actually gave them to her. “Where did you get these?” She tries to retrieve her foot, but I hold on tighter. “Where did you get these?” I ask again, growing impatient.

Did Rebel give them to her? Take credit formygift? I wouldn’t put it past him—the man loves to steal whatever’s shiny enough to catch his interest and isn’t bolted down—but I’d been planning on surprising her. New shoes. New dress. Dinner out on the water. A smile that’s more breathtaking than the setting sun.

A real fucking kiss, given willingly,gratefully, a soft sigh on her lips as I pour myself into her.

That plan’s already gone to shit and I haven’t even made the fucking reservation yet.

“Who cares where they’re from!” She jabs her heel into my thigh while I’m glaring at the wall and imagining my brother’s cocky fucking smirk staring back at me. “Get the fuck off of me! I’m not sleeping with you!”

I release her ankle like it’s an iron-hot brand, hissing through my teeth. “Fine,then don’t sleep.” Slamming the bathroom door in her face is a weak victory that rings as hollow as it sounds. I wince in the bright light and turn on the faucet to drown out her screeching. She’s obviously tried to open the door to the den—but it locked the moment it shut behind us. We’re trapped in here together, for better or worse, until I choose to unlock the door.

Or one of my idiot brothers meddles again.

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