Page 91 of Spark of Madness

“Warden Rainn,” I whisper, keeping formality to try to distance myself from him again, “the trial hasn’t begun yet.”

He exhales in a rush as his hands slip around me, caressing my stomach, wrapping me into a close embrace. His head comes over my shoulder and his cheek nuzzles against mine. He hugs me close, and I don’t want him to let go. I almost want to cry for the way he draws me in and takes away my loneliness.

I hate him for it.

I could almost love him for it.

“My brothers in God may use you today, but you are still mine.”

His.

My hand leaves the bed post, intent on pulling his arms away. Instead, my arms cross over my belly and lay on top of his where they hold me, reveling in the comfort he offers. I lean back, letting him take the weight of me, allowing him to claim me for this moment.

“I don’t want to share you,” he says with a broken voice, planting a kiss on my cheek, then peppering a line along the side of my jaw.

Then don’t.

Keep me.

Stealme away from Ember Glen…I’d rather face whateveris beyond the mountains.

I don’t speak as he kisses a trail down the side of my neck, as he stops at my nape to nuzzle and lick and nip in a way that has me drawing in trembling breaths.

“I don’t want you to go into this frightened, Mercy, not fearful and tense and dry. I want to give you something to hold on to through the next seven hours.” My hands fall away as his slide across my stomach, running up my sides, palms reaching around to cover my breasts. I gasp as he gently squeezes. “No one has said you aren’t allowed to enjoy this.”

I shove his hands and try to step forward, but I only run into the edge of the mattress. “No. I’m not going to enjoy them.”

He envelops me in his embrace, pulling me back again, hands roaming and groping me everywhere. I struggle against him for a moment, but I quickly fall victim to our confusing connection, to the combustible chemistry we share. I sink in his hold as one of his palms rubs flat down the center of my stomach, reaching low between my legs, over my underwear.

“I promised you,” I pant, breathless, “I promised I would only come for you.”

His fingers curl and he cups my sex to claim me. “And you will only come for me. Your greatest pleasure, Mercy, your peace today, will be found in the anticipation of it.”

His fingers stroke gently over my underwear, drawing out a whimper of desire I hadn’t expected him to be able to draw out of me. His other hand moves up my stomach as he speaks, traveling toward my breast.

“You won’t come unless I tell you to. Even if you feel it building, even if your pussy aches for release, you will not let it overtake you without my permission.”

How dare he demand such a thing?

I know it’s wrong of him—he shouldn’t be touching me at all right now—but the way he speaks, the way he wants me, the way he touches me lulls me into a submission that I struggle to fight.

I hate this.

His fingers dance across the mound of my breast and hook over the lacy black cup. He tugs it down, exposing my nipple to the cool air, and it hardens instantly. His hand continues moving, sliding over my chest, slipping up my throat, and cupping beneath my chin. Then his thumb reaches up to brush across my bottom lip.

“Open,” he commands, and I obey.

He slips his thumb past my parted lips, gently pressing inside and running the pad of his thumb over my tongue. He gathers wetness there before bringing his hand down my chest and circles his wet thumb around my nipple. His cheek is pressed to mine—every part of him touching every part of me—as he speaks with command.

“Stay out of your mind and fixed on your senses. Find pleasure in the pain, sanity in the madness.” He continues to circle my nipple, causing shocking jolts of pleasure as his other hand slips down into my panties, his fingers caressing my pussy. “Focus on feeling good without the release; remain in your heightened sense of anticipation, and when you’re trapped in the purgatory of need, rely on me to release you.”

I’m not sure I hear half of his words, or that I even understand the ones that I do, but his sultry voice is hypnotizing, intoxicating, lulling me into pleasure in the minutes before my trial is set to begin.

His thumb circles, his fingers brush and stroke, playing without purpose or intention, simply drawing me into lust. I moan, and my body rocks to seek more from his hand, which is buried in my underwear. At my movement, his hand stills.

“Don’t seek,” he says. “Take what’s given to you and find peace in the pleasure of it. Don’t chase release...it will only bring your pleasure to an end that much faster.”

I want to protest his words and his actions in this vulnerable moment. What he’s asking of me is deplorable. He wants me to find pleasure as his brothers use me but for me to stave off release until he grants it to me himself. He has no right to ask anything of me; he has no right to have his hands on me right now. His sins are so much worse than my own, yet I’m the one subjected to this disgusting punishment.

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