Page 30 of Conquer
“Before what?” I’m trying so damn hard to maintain my composure. My anger. My hurt. But it’s splintering, breaking apart with every second his breath bastes my throat. With his fingers caressing my skin. His gaze so deep and unending I’m drowning in it.
“Before you taunted me with it.” His eyes slide shut as his mouth grazes my lower jaw brazenly, his lips parted, tasting me. Inhaling me. “That’s what you’ve done, isn’t it? Tease me. Dangle a world I never imagined for myself, but you never reveal the fucking price—”
“Because there isn’t one!” My voice lacks any real anger. I’m lost in the urgency of his touch, my hips arching into him before I can help it. “You can’t buy love.”
“Only take it,” he says with a fervor that leaves me reeling. Hungry, he grips me tighter, drawing me further against him. “Claim it—”
“No. Youearnit,” I snap, devastated by the fact that he truly seems to mean those words. A man so lost he sees affection as something worth stealing, never his to take without a struggle. “It is given freely. Like when you let a man put his hands around your throat because you know he won’t hurt you.”
He blinks, his eyes fluttering open, dark with confusion. As I watch, they glaze over, hardened with resolve.
“Iwillearn you,” he tells me. But when he presses his mouth to mine, I doubt a verbal confession is on his mind.
Because conversation never gets us very far in the long run. Only one form of communication seems to supersede all others when it comes to the two of us.
And he initiates this discussion with his touch sliding down to my ass, snatching me into him. Gasping, I run my hands down his chest, letting my nails rake at the fabric of his shirt, gouging the flesh underneath. He sucks in a startled breath, his gaze radiating confusion—but the confusion quickly morphs into something else when I keep traveling lower, finding the fastenings of his pants.
With a deftness I didn’t even know I was capable of, I unhook the front clasp and yank down the zipper. Waiting beyond the barrier is his cock, stiffening against me, pulsating so strongly I swear I can count his heartbeat like this.
His very being is in the palm of my hand.
And groaning, he submits to me, letting me cradle him…and then tighten my grip so firmly he lurches, a growl revving in his throat. His hands grip me in retaliation, snatching me to him, grinding me over the contours of his body.
And we both cry out.
Days without him and my body reacts as though I’ve committed a crime. The ultimate act of self-harm—denying myself of this. Him.
Sensation returns like a gut punch, drowning me in a heat so potent it’s like I’m burning alive.
But in this instance, I’m not suffering alone.
He grunts at the feel of me as if punched with every grasping handful. Ruthless, his lips capture mine, his hands roving, nails scraping. Groping. Claiming. I’m putty in his hands, a slave to his whims as he drags me toward the bed. Only to change tact at the last minute and shove me against the window instead.
He spins me to face the glass as his body cages me in from behind. I feel his hands in my hair, working their way down to my shoulders. My throat. He encircles it, gripping it again, tightening those slender fingers. Tighter. Tighter. At the same time, I feel him grinding himself shamelessly against my lower back, teasing his erection to the point of straining against the confines of his boxers.
It has to be uncomfortable, I realize somewhere at the back of my mind. Painful. But it’s like he waits until the second I’m writhing, my thighs grinding together just to find relief.
The second I do, he cradles my throat, guiding my head back until our gazes connect from this angle—me straining up, him staring down, his eyes unfocused, glazed with lust.
A silent understanding passes between us. One that makes me buck into his grip and brace my hands over the window glass. Without hesitation, he plunges his hand beneath the skirt of my dress, finding my thong, wrenching it down my legs.
I writhe shamelessly, arching into his touch. Gasping out when his grip on my throat cinches—tighter than before. My eyes water, my lungs straining, lips parting.
But at the same time, he brushes his thumb over my clit, pairing the physical discomfort with pleasure and…
Holy, gosh darnkink.
My brain melts, every nerve going haywire. There is something inherently sinful when he stops holding back. Reacts without calculation or forethought. Adjusting his grip on me with one hand, he wrenches me onto him, plunging inside me on the first thrust.
It’s fire.
The force and pressure apply friction to my piercing from the inside, and I yelp at the sensation, feeling an orgasm build damn near instantaneously.
Rather than feed the flames, he rocks his hips, withdrawing just as swiftly. His grip on my throat returns, applying more pressure as his lips feather kisses down my collar. The conflicting actions make my body go limp, my eyes rolling as he slams back in.
In.
Again.
