Page 15 of Taken in the Tree Farm
The moment I respond, he makes a sound low in his throat—satisfaction and hunger—and deepens the kiss. His tongueslides against mine, and the sensation is so overwhelming that I whimper into his mouth.
My bound hands come up between us, pressing against his chest, but I'm not pushing him away. I'm pulling him closer, fingers curling into his jacket, holding on like he's the only solid thing in a world that's spinning out of control.
He shifts his weight, one hand tangling in my hair and tilting my head to the angle he wants. The kiss turns more demanding, more consuming, and I'm drowning in it. Inhim. In sensations I don't want to feel but can't resist.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His eyes are nearly black with desire, and I'm sure mine look the same.
"That's better," he murmurs, his thumb tracing my kiss-swollen lips. "Stop fighting what you feel."
Before I can respond, his mouth is on me again. But not my lips this time. He traces kisses along my jaw, down my throat, to that sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. When his teeth scrape against my skin, I arch involuntarily, a moan escaping before I can stop it.
"There's my sugarplum," he says against my neck. "Let me hear those pretty sounds."
His hand slides down my body, over the torn bodice of my costume, cupping my breast through the thin fabric. My nipple is hard—has been hard since the chase started—and when he brushes his thumb over the peak, I gasp.
"Mmm," he groans, doing it again. "I like that."
He's touching me like he owns me. Like he has every right to my body, to my responses, to the sounds I'm making. And theworst part is that I'mlettinghim. More than letting him—I'm responding, arching into his touch, begging for more with my body.
The blankets have fallen away completely now. He takes advantage, his hand exploring freely. Cupping my breasts, testing their weight, thumbing my nipples until I'm squirming beneath him. Then lower, over my ribs, my waist, my hips.
When his hand slides between my thighs, I freeze.
"Shh," he soothes, though his eyes are anything but soothing. They're dark with intent, focused on my face like he doesn't want to miss a single reaction. "Let me touch you, sugarplum."
His fingers brush over my inner thigh, pushing the torn tulle out of the way. The tattered fishnets provide no barrier at all. Then he's touching me through my panties, and we both feel the evidence of my arousal.
I'm soaked. Absolutely drenched.
"Fuck," he hisses, his control slipping for the first time. "You're so wet for me."
Shame burns through me, but it's mixed with need so intense I can barely think straight. His fingers stroke over the damp fabric, finding my clit through the thin material and applying just enough pressure to make me whimper.
"That's it," he encourages, his mouth finding my neck again. "Let yourself feel how much you want this."
He rubs slow circles over my clit, and I can't stop my hips from rolling, seeking more friction. It feels good. So good it scares me, because I shouldn't want this. I shouldn’t be spread out on thisbed, panting and needy for a man who drugged, kidnapped, and hunted me through the snow.
But I am.
God help me, I am.
"Please," I hear myself beg, though I'm not sure what I'm asking for. More? Less? For him to stop or to never stop?
"Please what?" His voice is rough against my ear. "Tell me what you want, sugarplum."
I can't form the words. I can barely form thoughts beyond the sensations he's creating with his hand between my legs.
He increases the pressure, rubbing faster, and I feel myself climbing. My bound hands clutch at his shoulders, my legs spreading wider without conscious thought.
"That's my girl," he murmurs. "Take what you need."
The praise does something to me. Makes me arch harder, chase the building pleasure with desperate little movements of my hips. I'm close. So close. Just a little more and I'll?—
He stops.
Pulls his hand away completely.
I make a sound of protest that's almost a sob, my body trembling with denied release.
