Page 12 of Poisoned Vows

But Nikolai makes no sense to me. I have no doubt that he must be as brutal of a man as his father—he must be, to be the heir in such a cutthroat world—but it seemed as if he were trying to…restrain himself. Like he wanted to keep himself away from me.

He refused to strip me down in front of others. He touched me—but something told me that he didn’t really want to be doing that, either. That he was doing it because he knew he had no other choice. That it would be worse for him if he didn’t.

Are we alike in that way?

I shake the thought away. There’s no possibility that Nikolai and I are alike, in any sense of the word. He’s the heir to a powerful crime family, a billionaire, a man with enough power, influence, and money to have and do anything he wants. And I’m at his mercy.

Little rabbit.

The memory of the strange nickname, rasping over his lips, sends another unfamiliar flutter of heat through me.

You’re going to have to fuck him. Not as his whore, but as his wife.

There’s no difference, really. I’ve been sold to him either way. But my thoughts linger on it. I try to focus my mind away from it, to think about something else…anything else. But I keep feeling the echo of his fingers between my thighs, softly rubbing, bringing sensations and feelings out of me that I’ve never experienced before.

That I never thought Iwouldexperience.

My hand slides down to grip my skirt the way he did before I can think twice about it, slowly raising it up my thighs. I reach beneath it, tracing my fingers up the soft inner flesh. I can feel the stickiness there, my arousal clinging to my skin, and I can feel the heat from between my thighs.

I’ve never touched myself there. Not even for a moment. I’ve never had an orgasm.

I don’t have to give him that.

There’s a small moment of rebellion that sparks and catches flame. I press my finger against the seam of my pussy, like he did. I rub it back and forth, against the outer flesh, and I feel myself throb from within.

The promise of pleasure against my fingertips.

I gasp when I push my finger between my folds, tapping my fingertip against my clit. I’m still soaking wet, and the sensation that darts through me is startling and new, flooding my veins. Tentatively, I rub my finger back and forth, testing it.

Oh god.I bite back a whimper, my head tipping back against the door, my hips arching into my hand. I circle my clit, rubbing it harder, wanting more of the pleasure without any real idea what I’m doing, only that it feels so fucking good. All of these years, I could have been doing this. It’s so good.

I’m drenched. I can feel myself dripping, soaking my skirt, and I hesitate, bringing my other hand between my legs. I don’t dare push my fingers inside of myself, don’t dare to risk the possibility of ruining my virginity. Still, I trace the outside of my entrance, delving the very tips of my fingers inside, likehe did.

I don’t want to think about Nikolai while I do this. But once I do, I can’t seem to stop. I remember his long fingers stroking me, the way they felt smooth against my drenched, hot flesh, and the pleasure he sparked in me. I wonder what his cock will look like, if it will be big or small, thick or slender. I wonder how he’ll fuck me.

I wonder if it will feel as good as this.

He’ll make you do everything, a small voice in my head warns me.He’ll make you let him fuck your mouth, too. Your ass. He’ll take all of you as payment.

But with my fingers circling my now-swollen clit, it doesn’t seem so bad. My mind feels foggy with pleasure, things that were once horrifying are now arousing me instead as my back arches. I resist the urge to push my fingers deeper inside of myself, my hips grinding a steady rhythm against my other hand now.

I can feel the mess between my thighs, my fingers sticky, drenched with an arousal that I know will humiliate me later. I’m dripping for a man who has bought me, who has told me I can’t refuse, that he’ll have me marched to the altar one way or another, all so he can claim my virginity under the sanctity of marriage for some unknown fucking reason. But right now, I don’t fuckingcare.

For the first time in my life, all I care about is an orgasm, and I drive myself toward it relentlessly, the vision of Nikolai looming over me with his fingers pushed between my folds, the thing that finally pushes me over the edge.

I yank one hand out from beneath my skirt, clamping it over my mouth to muffle the ragged, filthy moan that tears free from my lips. I can smell my arousal on my fingers,tasteit on my lips as I come hard, bucking against my hand as I orgasm for the first time in my twenty years of life. It feels like the pleasure will tear me apart at the seams.

This is what I’ve been missing.

And then the thought right on its heels—what if he makes me feel like this?

I shake it off, hot embarrassment rapidly replacing the flush of desire as the pleasure fades, and I realize what I’ve done. I’ve given myself the first orgasm of my life while fantasizing about a man who’s trapped me. Who’s forcing me to the altar.

Who is turning the rest of my life into a prison, I’ll never escape.

I sink my teeth into my lower lip—I taste the tang of my arousal from my fingers on it all over again. Tears of shame burn in my eyes, and this time I let them fall, streaming down my face as I lean back against the door and close my eyes, my shoulders, and then my entire body wracked with sobs.

I hadn’t realized just how hard I’d clung to that promise of freedom until it was gone. How much I’d relied on the idea that I’d only have to endure belonging to someone for a little while, and then the rest of my life would be my own.

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