Page 111 of Traitor

Before I can respond, his lips claim mine, a slow, intoxicating kiss that is neither gentle nor rough. It's controlled, like he's savoring every second before he ruins me. Like he's making a promise.

I know this promise.

My fingers slide beneath his shirt, meeting hard muscle beneath fevered skin. His body coils, tight with restraint, before a shudder rolls through him.

And then, he moves.

One leg nudges between mine, his knee pressing against my center, forcing my thighs to part for him. His mouth doesn't leave my skin, traveling to my ear, teeth grazing the lobe before trailing downward, lower, lower, never kissing, only brushing his lips over my throat.

Teasing. Marking. Owning.

I don't even realize he's bunched my shirt over my breasts until I feel the heat of his breath ghosting over sensitive skin. My nipples tighten in anticipation, and when his lips close around one, biting, licking, tormenting, my entire body tenses, drawn to the edge without relief.

His hand rolls the other, tugging, twisting, too soft, then too sharp, never enough. The second I arch into him, chasing more, I suddenly find myself flipped onto my stomach.

A gasp barely escapes before fabric is stripped from my body, my shirt abandoned somewhere on the floor.

I'm trapped beneath him, his powerful frame pinning me in place, yet he barely touches me. His legs bracket mine, an unspoken command to stay still.

I am at his mercy.

A rough chuckle. He knows what I'm thinking.

His fingers skim up and down my spine, in a slow, torturous glide. I shudder beneath him, my body betraying my need, my surrender.

He hasn't even taken off his damn shirt.

The bastard laughs, low and dark. Because this is his game.

I am just here to play. And I love it.

Then, his grip tightens at the back of my neck, pressing me deeper into the sheets as he spreads my legs apart.

A slow drag of fingers, hooking the edge of my panties, pulling them aside, exposing me. I can feel the warmth of his touch, the way his index finger traces featherlight paths over my slick folds.

"So wet for me. Soaking."

The tip of his finger flicks over my clit, a cruel tease, fleeting and devastating.

A sharp inhale. My body clenches, aching, waiting.

His grip leaves my neck, but not my control. His fingers spread wide, traveling lower, over the curve of my back, lower, lower, until a rough hand grips the flesh of my ass, squeezing, claiming.

"Bones," I breathe, almost a whimper, almost a plea.

His smirk lingers in the air between us, a ghost of amusement. "You want me, baby? Always so impatient."

The sudden press of his thumb against my other entrance makes me tense, instinct warring with want.

"Relax," he murmurs. "You know I'll make it good for you. Real fucking good."

I know.

I know too well.

His thumb circles, teasing, pressing, pushing, even as two of his fingers dip inside my core in a wicked rhythm, curling, dragging me closer, dragging me under.

A sharp sensation, wet, unexpected, between my cheeks. Did he just...?

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