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She held his gaze as she slid her hand into his trousers, caressing the hard length of him through the cotton of his underwear. Electricity crackled through him at her light touch, making his breath catch. It was maddening.
He had his hand over hers, pressing her palm harder against him before he’d even thought straight, and when he saw an answering flare of heat in her eyes, he suddenly realised exactly what she was doing.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded roughly. ‘To push me? Is that what you’re doing?’
‘No.’ She didn’t pull her hand away. Instead she squeezed him gently, making him give another helpless growl, her dark eyes full of determination and heat. ‘I only wanted to give you a taste of your own medicine.’
Ah, so that was it. She didn’t like how hungry she was for him and so was hoping to return the favour. Little witch.
It’s working.
Well, he was hungry for her, yes, but not beyond all sense. He was in control of this and his own body. He wasn’t going to lose it. He could pull away from her whenever he wanted, and, in fact, maybe he should do it now. Just to prove his point.
Except he didn’t.
‘If you really want to give me a taste of my own medicine,’ he heard himself say, ‘then perhaps get down on your knees.’
It was a challenge, he couldn’t say it wasn’t. Since she was challenging him with her maddening touch and her soft mouth, then he would do the same to her. He told himself that she wouldn’t do it, that she’d baulk. She was inexperienced, after all, and perhaps this would be a step too far for her.
But deep down, he knew she wouldn’t baulk. Not Elena. Elena, who’d held five men at bay with a knife, at eight years old. Who’d survived on her own in the ruins of her village for a week before he’d found her, somehow finding food and water, and managing to avoid looters and all kinds of other people who’d do her harm.
Something hot lit in her gaze and slowly she obeyed, going down onto her knees in front of him.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her as electricity crackled through him, desire tightening its grip. She looked perfect kneeling on the floor, gazing up at him, her eyes dark, her mouth full and lush and red. Her hands went to his underwear, pulling it down and taking him out without hesitation. Then her cool fingers were on him, stroking him.
Atticus reached for her veil without thinking, pulling it off so he could push his fingers into the silky wealth of her hair. She shuddered as he did so, but didn’t hesitate as she leaned forward to take him in her mouth.
He couldn’t stop the groan that escaped, or the fierce rush of pleasure that flooded through him as the heat of her mouth enveloped him.
She will make you lose control. You can’t stop her.
No, it was worse than that. He didn’t want to stop her. He wanted her to keep going. He wanted the heat of her mouth and the pressure, the feel of her teeth against his aching shaft and the exploration of her tongue.
‘Elena,’ he growled as she began to explore, licking him, teasing him.
She only looked up, her eyes dark, the flush in her cheeks creeping down her neck and down beneath the neckline of her dress. It was the most erotic sight, watching her swallow him as she knelt in front of him, her own hunger for him blazing in her eyes.
He gripped her hair tighter, murmuring to her, and she set up a rhythm in response with a confidence that left him breathless as the pleasure began to tighten inside him.
Her mouth was hot and felt so good, and he couldn’t think why he’d wanted to hold out against her. He couldn’t seem to think at all. Nothing was working right, only the heat of her mouth and the pleasure she was giving him mattered. Only the silky feel of her hair between his fingers and the thrust of his hips.
She made a soft throaty sound, as if she was enjoying this as much as he was, and then the pressure increased as she took him deeper. Then he was thinking about nothing but the ecstasy she was giving him, indescribable, unstoppable, and dimly he was aware that somehow, at some point, the control he was so proud of had escaped his grip. But by then he didn’t care.
He roared her name as abruptly the pleasure contracted like a fist around him and crushed him into dust.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELENA ADJUSTED THE drape of the wedding gown and stared at herself in the bedroom’s full-length mirror. She couldn’t speak, a complicated knot of emotion sitting heavy in her chest and closing around her throat.
She would be marrying Atticus tomorrow, a week to the day since she’d knelt for him in the salon and taken him in her mouth. A week since she’d made him lose control. And a week since he’d hauled her to her feet, pushed her up against the wall, pulled her dress up and had taken her again within minutes.
They hadn’t spoken afterwards yet that night there had come a knock on her door, and when she’d opened it, she’d found him standing on the other side. He hadn’t said a word, but his gaze had been fierce and hot, making it obvious what he’d wanted.
She’d had a half-second where she’d considered refusing him and then that half-second had passed and she’d thrown the door open, stepping aside to let him enter. Because she’d wanted what he’d wanted and every bit as badly.
He’d come to her door every night since and every night she hadn’t refused him. They didn’t talk. There wasn’t any need to. The only language they needed was that of passion and pleasure, hunger and desire.
During the day, they barely saw each other. He was busy dealing with Eleos, so she took over handling the intricacies of Kalathes Shipping, as well as planning the wedding, which they both wanted to occur as quickly as possible.
