Page 44 of Made for Vengeance

He smiled against my skin. "There she is."

And I hated that I didn’t pull away.

I should’ve shoved him off. Should’ve screamed. Should’ve clawed at his face, kicked at his knees, done something. But my legs wouldn’t move, and my throat was too tight to form a sound. My body, traitorous and trembling, leaned into the heat of him instead. Into the way his breath ghosted over my jaw, how hisfingers teased the edge of my waistband like a promise I wasn’t ready to hear.

He didn’t force. He didn’t need to.

His hands were confident, slow, methodical. One dragged up my spine to the back of my neck, curling into the hair at my nape and tugging my head back with a quiet sort of reverence. Not hard—but enough to make me gasp. Enough to make my eyes flutter closed.

"You hate how good this feels," he murmured. "I can see it all over your face. Poor thing. Confused by how badly she wants the man holding her captive."

His mouth was at my throat now, lips brushing, tongue flicking at my pulse. My hands found the front of his shirt—not to push him away, but just to hold on. My fingers curled in the fine wool, anchoring myself to something solid while everything inside me splintered.

His other hand slipped between us, fingers splaying low across my belly, the heat of his palm a brand against my skin.

"Still soaked," he said, voice rough with satisfaction. "You can’t lie to me, Grace. You want this.”

My whole body flushed, a searing wave of humiliation burning beneath my skin. I tried to turn my face away, but he caught my jaw, guiding me back to him.

"Look at me."

Fuck, I didn’t want to. But I did.

His eyes were dark, greedy, devouring every flicker of shame that danced across my face. He watched the tremble of my lips, the way my lashes fluttered against flushed cheeks.

"You act like this is a surprise," he murmured, voice velvet and filth. "But your body remembers. Doesn’t matter what your mind tells you—you’re already there."

I shook my head, tried to push him back. But my fingers didn’t follow through. They curled tighter into his shirt.

His thumb traced a slow circle over my lower belly, teasing the skin just beneath my waistband. "Still pretending you don’t want it? Even now?"

He dropped his mouth to the curve of my jaw, kissing it, licking it, biting just enough to make me gasp. His body pressed harder against mine, trapping me fully between the wall and his heat.

"Say you hate me," he said, voice low, coaxing. "Say anything. Just don’t pretend you don’t want me."

"I hate you," I breathed, but the words were paper-thin.

His hand slipped beneath my waistband, slow and assured. Fingers brushed lower. I jerked, the touch lightning and shame.

"And yet," he murmured, sliding two fingers along my slickness, "you’re still dripping."

My eyes fluttered shut. My knees threatened to give.

"This pussy was made to come on my fingers, and it knows it."

My whole body flinched, arched, melted.

"You can continue to lie with your mouth, Grace. But your dripping cunt tells the truth."

His fingers found my clit, circling it with maddening patience. My hips bucked. A broken sound escaped me—somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

"Still telling yourself it’s not real? That this isn’t what you want?"

I tried to deny it. I did. But my body moved without permission, chasing the pressure of his hand, grinding helplessly into his touch.

"That’s right," he breathed, fingers stroking deeper now, wetter, filthier. "Let me show you what your mouth won’t say."

My nails dug into his chest. My body burned with shame and need and something hotter, darker. A forbidden hunger clawing its way up from somewhere buried.

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