Page 3 of Raziel
He sounded so cold I almost believed he didn’t actually want me bothering him—but men like Raziel didn’t abide. If he wanted me to leave him alone, he would’ve made sure I couldn’t even get close. He didn’t want to want my attention.
“Why do you keep denying me? When all I want to do is make us feel good.” I shot back, lips curling into a smile too sweet for what I was trying to convey.
Something in him snapped. I saw it in his eyes.
He wasted no time dragging me off that floor, yanking me through the velvet-draped corridor. Past curious eyes, past the staff who knew better than to question men like him. He pulled me to the nearest bathroom.
He didn’t speak.
He pushed open the door, a heavy black slab with a gold handle, and shoved us both inside. The lock clicked behind him.
The air was heavy with the scent of perfume.
Before I could speak, his hand was on my back, shoving me forward.
My palms hit the cold marble of the vanity. Suddenly, the mirror was inches from my face. I caught a glimpse of myself—lips parted, eyes wide. Raziel was behind me, his presence swallowing the space whole.
He roughly pressed my upper body down, making me bend over the sink, leaving my ass in the air. He splayed his hand on my back, keeping me there.
“Why are you being so rough?” I whispered.
“You wanted to play, Maya,” he said low, like gasoline set on fire. Heat dragged down my spine. “This is what happens.”
I heard the rip—then I felt the fabric of my lace panties biting into my skin.
“What the fuck, Raziel?” I hissed, heart pounding. “You really had to rip my fifty-dollar panties off?”
“You started it,” he growled. “Now shut the fuck up and take what you’ve been begging for.”
He hiked my dress up until it was around my waist.
His free hand slid between my thighs and found skin, and heat, and the slick proof I’d been thinking about this since the moment I first saw him.
He laughed—low, dangerous, bitter. His voice grazing the edge of restraint.
“I’ve been trying to stay away from you. You’re a walking fucking hazard. A pretty problem. But you won’t let me.”
I heard his zipper.
Then he slammed into me. If I wasn’t so wet, he would have ripped something. I cried out, feeling like I was walking that razor-thin line between pain and pleasure.
“Shit, Maya…” he groaned, his hand slipping around to grip my throat—squeezing. “You feel better than I imagined.”
He imagined this?
I didn’t get to dwell on the thought because he pulled his dick almost all the way out, leaving me aching and empty, then drove it back in fast and deep.
His hand dropped from my throat, and then he was gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. He started pounding into me.
The sound of our bodies colliding echoed through the room, filthy and perfect.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
I watched him in the mirror—his face.
Damn.
There was something so unholy about the way he watched himself slip in and out of me.
