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He lifted eyes dark with lust up to hers. “After I taste you, Violet, we’re going to fuck. The first time, it’ll be gentle to get you ready. But after that,” he said and pulled her closer, so he spoke right against her. As if he was settling in to get to work. “After that…” Another kiss against her. “You’re mine.”
She couldn’t hold herself up anymore. Her arms shook with tension and her neck burned with need. She fell back to the desk, scattering papers and his keyboard in any direction.
He kissed her harder then, his mouth moving over her as if he kissed her lips. The noises coming from them both should have embarrassed her—growls and low moans from him, high-pitched incoherent words from her. But if he continued what he was doing between her legs, she could care less. She wanted to scream.
That barrier of her panties slowly started driving up her frustrations. As if he sensed it, he moved his face over to the inside of her thigh and laid another open-mouthed kiss there. She looked down to see what he was doing and found his eyes lifted to hers.
The ceiling fan drove air across her heated face, knocked tendrils of her hair around. Somewhere in the house, a door closed. But her entire focus remained on this man who used to be the boogeyman of her nightmares and what he was doing between her spread legs.
He rustled around in a desk drawer, but his eyes remained on hers as he lifted what looked to be a wicked switchblade, blade already out.
Her heart slammed against her chest, the organ already set in flight mode. She darted her gaze back and forth between his eyes and the switchblade, trying to figure out what he planned to do. Would he hurt her here, now that he had her in his bedroom? Was his game continuing? If she screamed, would someone come running?
Those darkened eyes lit up with what suspiciously looked like amusement and she narrowed hers slightly.
His mouth moved against her again, in that same spot along the inside crease of her thigh. She held her breath, waiting with anticipation on what his mouth—and his hand with the knife—would do.
His eyes dipped as his hand did, and she felt cool steel against her skin down there, then with one flick and two of his wrist, her panties fell away. She laid completely bared to him.
“Elijah,” she said, his name coming out as she couldn’t decide between gasping or breathing.
“I said you’re safe here, Little Bird. And I meant it.” She fell to her back, unable to hold herself up again, but looked down the side of her body to find him setting the switchblade in her grip. She held it tightly, met his eyes one more time before he dipped his head between her thighs again.
Then she was lost in pleasure. His hot mouth settled in and explored. His tongue focused on her clit, but moved to her entrance and caused her to gasp at the foreign feeling. He was relentless, driving her higher and higher with every swipe of his tongue, every movement of his mouth.
Her legs shook and she tried to lift her hips, move them, but he held her down. She felt the orgasm rushing up on her, almost painful in its intensity. It threatened to break her, overtake all common sense, throw her off the cliff into some deep recess of pleasure.
“Elijah,” she gasped, feeling it coil tight deep in her stomach. She needed something, craved it. But she didn’t know what. “Please,” she begged, not knowing what she asked for.
He groaned against her, then moved his mouth to suckle at her clit and she swore stars exploded behind her eyes. She cried out, then felt the pierce of his fingers dive into her channel, deep … so deep. Her orgasm hit her then, washing over her with a blissful, painful pleasure. It spread out from deep inside, all along her body and scalp, tingles of rushed sweetness causing her to sing a sweet song of relief.
She slumped back to the desk, almost dazed, slightly shocked. He rose from between her legs, his eyes on hers, the juices of her body still around his mouth.
He moved back, only one step, but held out his hand.
An offering.
A promise.
A spark that just needed air to ignite.
Chapter Eight
Elijah held his hand out to Violet, hoping like hell she took it. No matter what he’d said earlier, he wouldn’t force this on her. Wouldn’t expect her to fuck him as he stated, even though his cock wept, practically strained for her touch in his shorts.
He squeezed it now, trying to calm down. After experiencing the taste of her on his tongue, the sound of her in the air, and the feel of her thighs squeezing his head as he brought her to orgasm, he’d almost done the same in his pants and he hadn’t ever done that.
Ever.
But her cries had called to something primitive inside him, almost like there was a caveman trapped within begging to mate.
He would not force her, no. But he wasn’t beneath begging.
He didn’t need to, though, for she slipped her hand into his and he pulled her off the desk. She looked down at the switchblade in her other hand and dropped it to the desk, then turned to him with an open expectation of trust he didn’t seem worthy of.
Not after everything he’d put her through. But damn it, he’d find a million ways to make it up to her.
Chapter Nine
