Page 63 of His Forced Bride
“You hate me, Inessa?” His voice vibrates against my skin.
“Then show me.” His teeth nip the place where my pulse races, and my knees nearly buckle.
“I do,” I gasp, though the word breaks apart when his hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back so he can devour more of my throat.
His other hand drags the hem of my dress upward, shoving the fabric over my hips until the cool air hits my bare thighs.
My nails claw at the front of his shirt, pulling until buttons scatter across the floor.
He growls approval, pressing me harder against the desk so the wood digs cruelly into my back.
His chest is bare now, muscles flexing as he grinds against me, the heat of his cock straining against his trousers a fiery brand against my thigh.
“Say it again.” His hand slides between my legs, rough fingers stroking through the damp silk of my panties.
“I hate you,” I bite out, but the sound warps into a whimper when he pushes the fabric aside and thrusts two fingers inside me.
My body betrays me instantly, clenching around him and betraying my very own words. I don’t hate this as much as I want to.
“You hate how much you need this.” His thumb circles my clit, and I arch off the desk, strangled moans leaving my lips despite the fury on my tongue.
I dig my nails into his shoulders.
I'm desperate, furious, aroused beyond reason. “Fuck you.”
“You will.” His growl is low and dangerous, his fingers leaving me empty a second before he wrenches his belt open.
The rasp of leather sliding free makes my blood roar in my ears.
Then without warning, he drags my panties down, bunching them at one ankle, then shoves his trousers low enough to free himself.
My eyes catch on his thick length, and I curse my own body for the flood of heat between my thighs.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging the head of his cock over my slick folds, smearing me with my own arousal.
“Burning for the man you swear you despise.”
I try to spit a retort, but the breath seizes in my chest when, instead of driving into me, he suddenly pulls back.
My ass barely touches the desk before he yanks me forward, dragging me until I’m perched on the very edge.
The rough scrape of wood bites my thighs, but then his knees hit the floor, and the sight of him kneeling between my legs robs me of all thought.
“Yuri—” My protest dissolves when his hands grip the backs of my thighs, shoving them wider.
His mouth finds me with no hesitation, tongue spearing into my soaked heat before dragging up to my clit.
My head slams back, a cry ripping out of me.
“You taste like fury,” he growls against me, then seals his mouth over my clit, sucking hard.
His fingers dig bruises into my thighs to hold me open while his tongue works mercilessly.
I clutch at his hair, meaning to shove him away, but my hips betray me, grinding against his face, chasing every flick and curl of his tongue.
“Fuck—stop,” I pant, though my body begs the opposite.
He ignores me, tongue circling, lashing, sucking until my legs quake against his shoulders.
