Page 42 of The Villain
“Yes!”
“Let’s see. Don’t move.” He sets the candle down and backs away. I don’t move, but watch from the corner of my eye and even in the dim light, I see how his eyes arefixed on me, how dark they are, no longer cold or hard, but molten. Like lava.
He meets my eyes and begins to unbutton the top buttons of his shirt before pulling it off over his head, sending the rest of the buttons popping to the stone floor.
“I like you like this, Moth.”
“Cassian,” I start, having to clear my throat because once again, the air has shifted, that electrical charge back.
“Don’t. Fucking. Move.”
I swallow, the look of him so different than I’ve seen it. That first night he was taunting me. This? Now? There’s only one thing he wants now. And the sight of him like this and the way he’s looking at me like he’ll eat me whole makes me feel like I’ve swallowed a hundred moths.
“Good little enemy,” he says, meeting my eyes as he cups my ass before crouching down behind me and drawing my cheeks apart, the wax breaking as he exposes me.
I know he sees what I can’t deny. I’m turned on.
I should be raging. Humiliated. Hating him. But all I am is wet.
My face burns hot, and I don’t know why I’m not fighting him. When he closes his mouth over my pussy, my hands turn to claws on the stone and I tremble. His breath is hot, his tongue wet and all I can do is make some pathetic, whimpering sound because I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before. Things I shouldn’t feel with him.
“Cassian,” I start when he runs his tongue over the length of me, from my pussy to my ass, circling there before dipping his tongue inside my pussy. “Jesus. God. Cassian.”
He snorts, stands up, one hand cupping my breast, pinching a nipple while the other finds my clit.
“You taste good, Moth,” he whispers darkly. “You taste so damn good I’m going to eat you alive,” he says, biting down on my shoulder as his fingers find my clit and it’s not long before I’m panting, pressing my ass against his erection, riding it, my hands still somehow obediently plastered to the altar, palms flat, my knees shaking.
“Oh god…”
I’m so close to coming and he must know it because he’s taunting me, bringing me to the edge with his fingers. His breath is hot against my neck, and I don’t want this to end, all these sensations like smoke, like everything and nothing, like a thousand moths fluttering their papery wings inside my belly, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before and everything I want to hold onto.
“Good Little Moth,” he says, pulling me upright, turning me to face him. I hear the unzipping of his slacks, and he brings his forehead to mine. “I need to feel you,” he says, his breathing ragged now. “Just a little.” He kisses me and I find my hands on his shoulders, fingernails digging into flesh as I kiss him back. “Look at me, Allegra.” I look at him, his face so close, molten eyes searching mine as he lifts me up, sets me on the edge of the altar and then he’s at my entrance and he’s big. Too big.
“Cassian,” I start, but he pushes into me, stretching me. It burns, and I cry out, but he goes slowly, his moan is a rumble, a vibration from his chest into mine.
“Just a little more,” he says, I’m not sure it’s to me or to himself.
“Cassian,” I say again, feeling him at my barrier. I should tell him to stop, but I don’t want him to stop. I don’t want this to stop.
He pauses forehead furrowing momentarily as he meets my eyes. Does he feel it? Does he know? He groans like he’s in pain, like he’s pulling back or wanting to, but I reach for him, kiss him, even if it’s the stupidest thing I can do.
“Cassian,” I say against his mouth because this closeness, it’s something I need. Something I can’t explain, but need like I need air to breathe.
“Allegra,” he mutters against my mouth, his voice an agony.
“I—”
The next words never come because he thrusts into me hard and I cry out, the pain sharp, the sensation warm and wet.
Blood. Virgin blood.
“Fuck, Allegra,” he mutters, his unshaven face scratching the skin around my mouth when he kisses me, lifting me from the altar and pulling me to him, holding me so close as he thrusts deep and hard, that agony warring with ecstasy clear on his beautiful face. “Fuck. Allegra.”
I cling to him as pain turns to something else, as my clit rubs against him and we’re so close. So fucking close.I arch my back for more, my hand a fist pulling at his tangled hair. “I’m going to come,” I pant. “Oh God. I’m going to come.”
He tugs my head backward. “Look at me.” His thrusts come deeper, faster, harder and I can’t tell if it hurts or feels good, so good. “Fuck. Look at me,” he demands, and I do and when I see that pure blue ringing the blackest of pupils, ecstasy washes over me, blurring my vision, making everything sensation, pure sensation. I think I call his name. I think I do. And the sound echoes through the walls of the great church. I throw my head back, pulling at his hair with my fists, fingernails digging into his scalp and soon he’s throbbing his release inside me, cursing, cursing until those curses turn into a deep, guttural moan and he stills, holding me so close and so tight that we are one and it’s him and me and this and us and only us.
When my vision begins to clear, we’re both left panting. He’s holding me, sagging into me, the altar holding us both up. He fits his forehead into the curve of my neck, breath hot and ragged, the shift in the air palpable. He mutters a curse, and I hear the zipping of his slacks as I untangle my fingers from his hair and he pulls out of me, holding me to him as he takes two steps backward. Come is warm on my thighs and when I look at him, I see the furrow of his forehead, the intensity of his gaze on me, the confusion there.
