Page 81 of Promise of Destruction
There’s no shortage of scorned former lovers—girls he knew in college, saying that he hadn’t had two pennies to rub together, women who had thought that going home with him would be more than a one-night thing, the whispers of making his money in underground ways, the fact that his business figures and profits are never published. His company isn’t even publicly traded in stocks.
When I had seen Declan Evers as a monster capable of murder and assault, it had been easy to manipulate the pieces I needed to make them fit into the picture of a man ruthless and willing to do anything to maintain power.
“I shouldn’t have written that,” I say, not wanting to talk in specifics. I shouldn’t have written any of it, but I especially don’t want to get into the more salacious claims.
“No,” he agrees, tossing my phone on the neatly-made bed behind me. My eyes follow it, wondering if there’s something more I’m missing. “But you did.”
I swallow, having no response for that.
I’m staring at him; we’re so close that I can’t see from my peripherals when his touch lands on my back, making me jump. The contact chases chills all down my arms. My entire body puckers at it, my nipples drawing tight across the delicate fabric of my shirt.
I don’t move, don’t speak—just let his touch explore, tracing my spine up, up, up. He’s surely figured out I caved and undressed a bit. I’m more embarrassed by that than I am when he continues to trace my spine, lifting my shirt higher and higher until he peels it off of me, throwing that in the corner without ceremony.
He says nothing as he takes me in, totally bare on the top, my lounge pants slung low on my hips.
I let him look a minute since it’s not like he hasn’t already seen me naked, waiting for him to prove his point. But there’s something different in his gaze as he appraises me wordlessly, and it has me feeling particularly vulnerable.
When he doesn’t say anything, I move to fold my arms across myself.
Declan stops me, his hands closing around each of my wrists and tugging them down to my sides, prying a ragged breath from my chest.
My heart is beating so fast, I’m sure he can hear it in the silence, if not see the faint imprint of it trying to escape it’s cage.
When I glance up to meet his gaze, it’s hungry.
I know what’s about to happen before it does, and I welcome it. He takes a few strides, pushing me back toward the bed, his body pressed into mine. The cotton of his tee shirt drags over my nipples, drawing the faintest stirrings of pleasure.
It’s a short fall from where I stand to the bed, but Declan releases my wrists and cradles my head so that it doesn’t slam against the mattress when he pushes me backwards over it and follows, hovering over me so that he can see everything. I wonder if he can see my desperation—if it’s obvious.
“You are such a beautiful disaster, Soren Palmer.”
I don’t know if it’s his voice or his words that make my back arch, but it does, unbidden, offering up myself to him.
He takes what I’m offering, his mouth closing over one nipple.
The warmth is soothing, gentle—the total opposite of what he does to the other one, pinching it between his fingers so that it stands at attention, taking the punishment he’s giving it. It’s only the beginning of the punishment I hope he’s going to give me; Iwanthis anger. I want the pain he can give me.
Like he’s read my mind, his tongue slips away from the peak he’s stiffened. I don’t get a chance to mourn its loss before his teeth sink into the flesh, too brutal to be gentle, too gentle to be painful.
I gasp as the pain blossoms in me, and he soothes it away with his tongue before moving his mouth to my other breast, teasing, coaxing.
I’m on edge, braced for another bite, but it never comes. Instead, he traces it like it’s a delicate thing that may dissolve under his tongue, pinching and rolling it into an abused nub—pain twining with pleasure.
The combination is heady, erotic. I’ve had pain during what was supposed to be pleasure before—more times than I cared to admit, truly. The uncomfortable friction of resistance, the ache of not getting what I needed, the accidental catching of my hair under a pillow… and then all of the problems that started twilight of my marriage.
But this? The intentional introduction of suffering in the midst of this ease—this is another thing entirely.
When I try to press my legs together, to ease some of the ache there, I feel how slippery wet I am… for him.
Declan is giving me a pleasure he told me he wouldn’t, but already it’s better than anything I’ve felt—better than a sweaty hand grasping pathetically at my breast and thick fingers pushing into me dry.
The thought makes me hate myself. Vincent was my husband—my husband who I loved, who loved me, who was my first and last and everything in between. I hadn’t hated sex with him when we were having it—other than the few times I wasn’t in the mood but caved anyway.
So why is my body trying to convince me that it hadn’t been like this?
Because it wasn’t.
I try to drown out the voice in my head, to soak in the pleasure as Declan releases my nipple, his hands skating down to the edge of the fabric on my hips. There’s no awkward fumbling, no hesitation when he reaches between my legs, which part far too easily for him.
