Page 6

“Fuck,” he breathes.

The desperation in it tears through me.

His hands move to my skirt, pushing the fabric higher and higher until my thighs are exposed. His knuckles drag over my skin, rough with calluses.

He keeps going until my ass meets the cool marble beneath me, then slides his hands underneath and squeezes, hauling me closer. The distance between us disappears. I feel exactly how hard he is through his trousers.

At some point I start fumbling with his belt. I don’t even remember deciding to do it.

My fingers fight the buckle under his steady gaze, and when I nearly lose the battle entirely, a laugh escapes him against my throat.

The sound vibrates through me. He covers my hand with his and helps.

The belt gives way.

His fly opens with a pop as his hand dives inside my underwear, rough fingers finding me, discovering how soaked through I am.

A groan catches in his chest. “You’re fucking perfect.”

The words barely register before he pushes two thick fingers inside me.

My breath catches.

I turn my head toward the mirror and stare at my reflection. The woman looking back doesn’t seem entirely familiar.

Her pupils are blown wide. Her mouth hangs open. The beginnings of a bruise darkens the skin of her throat.

Every touch strips away another layer of thought. I should feel exposed under the bright bathroom lights, yet all I want is more.

I rock my hips forward. Greedy.

Bane exhales hard and works his fingers deeper. His thumb drifts upward, searching for a reaction, testing a suspicion he hasn’t confirmed yet.

I want to tell him, to show him, to hand him every secret I have and watch what he does with it.

My grip tightens around his forearm as he settles into a pace that keeps changing, drawing me after it. He eases back, drives deeper, then eases back again, studying every response as though he’s memorizing me piece by piece.

My thoughts scatter.

The mirror catches my hair, wild around my shoulders. It catches his reflection too.

My eyes lock on his face as his attention drops to the hand disappearing between my legs, and I find myself memorizing him in return. The flex of his jaw, the tension beneath his skin, the look he gets when he realizes exactly what he’s doing to me.

He barely speaks. The only words he gives me come as rough commands.

“Look at me,” he says when my eyes drift closed.

“Don’t stop,” when my breath catches and my body starts to tremble, balanced on the edge of release.

He never looks away. Even when I can’t hold his gaze, when thought slips out of reach and I’m running on instinct, when my body shakes and I’m half sliding off the marble, his eyes stay fixed on me.

Watching. Searching. Hungry for every reaction.

Then he finds my clit and works it with a careful grind.

“Fucking hell,” I gasp, my fingers locking around his wrist.

Every trace of teasing has burned away. The bathroom shrinks until it holds only me, him, and the mirror. His hand. His mouth. The rough sound of my name every time it leaves his lips.