Page 28 of His Stakes (His Obsession 2)

“I want you to do whatever it is that will make you happy living here. With me.”

Shooting me a look that would cause a lesser man to wither where he stood, she rose from her chair and walked over to the table where I kept my best whiskey. Uncapping the bottle, she grabbed a glass.

But I was right behind her. “Other than become a raging alcoholic.” Taking the glass from her, I set it back on the tray and re-capped the bottle. “I think you should lay off of this for a while.”

“Seriously? What are you now, my dad?”

Something sparked inside of me, and I lost what little patience I’d managed to retain up until this point. Grabbing her wrists, I twisted her arms behind her and yanked her up against me, bending her backward and looming over her like the overbearing asshole I was. “Does your dad kiss you like I do?” I asked her. “Has he tasted every inch of your body? Does he make your pussy so wet you drench his fingers when he touches you?” She turned her face away, and I scraped my teeth along her jawline before growling in her ear, “Does he fuck you like I do?”

“No,” she whispered.

“No,” I repeated. Transferring her wrists to one hand, I ran the other over the curve of her ass, dipping my fingers between her thighs. The fine thread of careful control I’d held on to all morning had snapped.

I hated this forced distance she kept between us. The way she denied what we had. And if I had to stoke the fire within her by force, I would. As many times as I needed to until she accepted that this was right where she belonged.

I nipped at her jaw again, dragging my tongue along the nick from my knife so I could taste the tang of her blood, and felt the scratches she’d left on my throat burn in response.

She turned her head toward mine to break the contact. “I don’t want this,” she said in a fragile voice.

But my vita was not weak. She was strong. She was passionate. She did want this. She wanted me. And she needed to remember that.

Something dark and acrid coated my tongue as another ugly thought forced its way through the chaos in my mind. Was she remembering my brother’s hands on her? Was there more that had happened between them while she was there? Things she wasn’t telling me? Had he carved out a piece of her to keep when he’d scarred her beautiful flesh? Something primitive and animalistic rumbled deep in my chest and rose to the back of my throat.

What he’d done to her made my stomach heave. And yet she’d showed no fear when I pulled my own knife on her. Twice now I’d drawn blood, and she’d barely flinched.

Had she encouraged him to do this to her? Did it get her off? Had she enjoyed sucking his cock? He hadn’t raped her, she’d said. Was that her way of telling me he hadn’t needed to?

As these thoughts and more tripped over themselves in my head, everything went red. The small part of me that remained sane knew I was reaching, that these things made no sense. But the other part of me, that primeval part of myself, was louder by far. So loud I wanted to scream with the need to mark Veda as my own as Mario had done.

Dragging her over to the chair she’d just vacated, I sat down, shoving her to her knees in front of me. My cock was already swollen to bursting, aching with the need to come down her throat. To coat her inside and out as mine. “Stay right where you fucking are,” I ordered as I undid my pants.

She watched me with wide eyes, but did as I said. When my cock sprang free, so hard the head was thick and purple, her lips parted on a gasp, even as she looked away.

Leaning forward, I grabbed her by the hair she’d piled on top of her head, only vaguely noticing it was still damp from her shower. “Put me in your mouth.”

“No.” Her jaw was clenched tight.

Pulling her face closer, I rubbed the tip of my cock against her lips, coating them with the drops of come that were already leaking from the tip. “Suck me, Veda.” I knew I was acting like a monster. No better than my goddamned brother. But I needed this. I needed her to show me, even if she wouldn’t admit it out loud, that it was me she craved.

She pressed her lips together.

Furious that she wouldn’t accept me, I grabbed the bottom of her shirt and pulled it up and off, tossing it on my desk. The bra she wore was plain and pink. Innocent. It made me pause, but only for a second. I shoved the straps down over her shoulders and arms until the cups folded down and exposed her perfect breasts. She said nothing, didn’t fight me or try to get up. She just kneeled there with a mulish expression on her face that only infuriated me more.

The “M” on her chest was still swollen and discolored, with a thin red line down the middle and shiny from the Vaseline I’d applied. My own chest burned as I stared at it, the roar in my ears so loud I could only feel my own pounding heart. Taking my cock in my hand, I ran my palm up and down its length. Then again. A moan escaped me the third time, and I picked up the pace, squeezing my sex in an almost painful grip. I realized Veda was watching me, her lips parted and her breath coming in pants. Yet she held perfectly still, her shoulders tense.

I fell back in the chair as my balls tightened, my eyes on her mouth and tits and my hips lifting with each stroke of my hand. The pressure began at the base of my spine, and I levered my body up to grab her by the hair again. I held her still as my cock pulsed in my hand, my orgasm hitting so fast and hard I yelled out with the intensity of it.

I coated that fucking letter on her chest with my come until it was dripping from her breasts. And when there wasn’t a drop left in me, I released my sex and rubbed it into her raw skin, marking her as mine. And only mine.

But it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t nearly enough. I yanked on her hair until her chin came up and took her lips with mine, forcing her to accept me. When she finally…finally!…opened to me on a moan, I felt my sex begin to harden again. But I pulled my mouth away and rested my forehead against hers. “You make me fucking crazy, amore.”

She said nothing at all. Didn’t move. Didn’t try to look at me. And now that I could see something other than the red haze of my anger and jealousy, that bothered me more than her rejection.

I closed my eyes and cursed softly. “I’m sorry,” I told her. Taking her face between my palms, I met her eyes. “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

“No,” she finally said. “You’re not. So do me the decency of not lying to me about it.”

She was right. I wasn’t fucking sorry. Not at all. I fixed her bra straps and handed her her shirt, a surge of satisfaction rushing through me to see my come drying on her mutilated skin.

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