Page 75 of Lady and the Butcher
His hands were not tentative. They gripped, claimed, tore the clothes from me like they were in the way of something inevitable. Fabric gave way under his strength, leaving me bare, breathless, and spread wide beneath the weight of his gaze.
“Mine,” he said, low and rough, each syllable vibrating down my body. His palm pressed to my sternum, holding me there like he’d pinned me to the world itself. My chest rose against the pressure, defiant, hungry, trembling.
He slid a hand down, slow enough to taunt, firm enough to leave no question of control. Fingers teased the inside of my thigh before he shoved my legs open, wider than I thought I could stand. The cool air licked my skin and then his mouth replaced it, hot and consuming. He kissed to own.
My back arched off the bed, but he held me down with one arm across my hips. His tongue lashed, relentless, every stroke demanding more of me. I gasped, a sharp cry escaping, and he lifted his head just enough to growl, “Good girl. Louder.”
The praise hit like a strike. I moaned again, louder this time, shame and want tangling until I couldn’t tell them apart.
He didn’t ease up. He drove me harder, rougher, until my thighs quivered and my hands scrabbled at the sheets, trying to hold onto something real. He caught my wrists midair and slammed them above my head, his grip iron. “Stay there,” he ordered, his breath hot against my soaked skin. “Don’t move unless I tell you.”
Fear fluttered in my chest, sharp and bright. But beneath it was fire. A burn that spread outward, devouring every hesitation.
When he pushed two fingers inside me, there was no gentleness. Just a stretch that stole my breath and a rhythm that had me panting his name. He watched me unravel, eyes dark, mouth curling in satisfaction. “You take me so well,” he rasped. “Like you were made for this. For me.”
The words broke something in me. My hips bucked despite his hold, desperate for more, faster, deeper.
“You want it rough,” he said, not a question but a statement he’d already proven. His thrusts grew harder, his teeth grazing my inner thigh before biting down just shy of pain. I cried out, half pleasure, half shock, and his answering groan told me he loved both.
He freed his cock, thick and heavy against my slick folds. He teased me with the head, dragging it over my clit until I writhed. Then, without warning, he drove into me in one brutal thrust. I screamed, my nails raking down his arms.
“Fuck, yes,” he growled, gripping my jaw and forcing me to look at him. “Eyes on me, Lady. You don’t look away when I’m inside you.”
Tears pricked my eyes, the mix of too much and exactly right overwhelming me. Fear and fire collided, setting me ablaze. He pounded into me, deep and relentless, the sound of our bodies slamming together filling the room.
I broke first. My orgasm ripped through me, violent and raw, every muscle clenching around him as if my body refused to let him go. He didn’t slow, fucking me through it, wringing every last shudder until I sagged, limp and ruined, beneath him.
Only then did he let go, burying himself to the hilt and spilling into me with a groan that was half curse, half prayer. Hisgrip stayed iron, his claim absolute, his possession terrifying in its certainty.
And still, even through the fear, I wanted more.
Mercy.
After, lying tangled in sheets, I whispered the question that had been gnawing at me.
“What happens if I can’t keep these two worlds apart?”
He smoothed a hand over my hair, fingers deliberate, soothing when his words carried weight. “Then I make sure the part that scares you never touches you.”
I swallowed. My throat felt tight. “And what if it’s you that scares me?” The question left before I could stop it, raw and small.
His hand stilled for half a beat, then kept moving, slow and steady. “Then I earn back your trust every time until the fear burns out,” he said, voice low enough it felt like a vow. “I don’t want your obedience. I want your consent. Always.”
The reassurance didn’t erase the shiver in my chest, but it softened it, dulled the edge. My body still leaned into his touch, even while my mind pressed questions into the dark.
“And Stephen?” I asked, because his name was the other edge of this blade.
His eyes sharpened. “Your brother knows enough to stay safe. He’s smarter than he looks.”
The words didn’t ease the knot in my chest.
Because Stephen didn’t look smart right now. He looked sick.
And I had no idea how long I could keep pretending otherwise.
24
The river loft had its own weather. Morning light slanted off the water in sheets, painting the walls gold. The hum of the tide slipped through the old windows, and every creak of the wooden floor felt alive. It should have been peace. It wasn’t.
