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His fingers loosen, his face turning red with rage at my words. His fingers go to the cups of my bra, and he pulls, the thick fabric holding them together snapping like a rubber band. No force needed. My breasts fall free, bouncing lightly in front of his gaze. He watches them, his eyes darkening into bottomless pits.
What the hell is it with this guy?
His fingers press into my ugly scar, and indignant tears immediately flood my eyes. "How did this happen?"
I whip my head to the side, staring at the wall. "It's none of your business."
He tweaks a nipple. Hard. My back arches and I whimper, pain and pleasure mixing in an unbearable combination. "You escaped death once. Why so eager to go back to that place?"
I bite my lip, blinking back the tears. He has no right. No right to break me as he seems to be doing. So effortlessly. I feel exposed and at his mercy. Completely.
He palms my breasts, and I let him, because a part of me wants the touch. But from him? I don't know what I want anymore.
"What happened to you?" he asks again.
My lips press together so tightly. I don't want him to know my past. I don't want him to know anything personal about me. He doesn't deserve it. Not an inch.
"Did you die?" he whispers, leaning into me. His lower lip brushes my nipple. Hardened, sensitive. He moves, his warm breath fanning across my scar. "Did you stop breathing?" His finger lifts, and it skims across the length, from top to bottom. "Did your heart stop beating?"
"My heart was rotten from the beginning."
His pauses on a breath, my skin turning from warm to cool. His eyes raise, his dark eyelashes fanning across his skin as his eyes spear into mine. "Is your bad heart the one beating in your chest at this very moment?"
His hand covers my left breast, feeling for the beat. As if he could tell, just from touch, that my heart is good or bad.
"My heart is in a wasteland, no longer beating." The words flow out of me, even though I don't want to say a word to him. I should ask if he's the witch, not me. How does he get me to speak to him so willingly, even when my brain tells me that's the last thing it should do?
His hand twitches. "Whose heart sits inside your rib cage?"
I look at him to see that he's already watching me. "My father's."
His hand drops, and he takes a step back from me. "You're serious."
"As my rotted heart."
He spins around, walking across the library. His back is stiff, tensed. He is coiled tight. It looks like he's about to leave the room. Leave me and my fake heart alone. Maybe for good, this time.
At the last moment, he spins around, his dark eyes hot and heavy as they land on mine. He takes quick steps, and somehow, within only a moment, he's back in front of me, pressing his dress shirt against my bare chest. Both hands cup my jaw, tilting my head back until I'm staring him in the eyes. "You are so fucked up, Vera." His head shakes, like he can't bear to be near me. "So, why can't I get enough of you?"
His mouth dives down, claiming mine. At first, I gasp, and he takes advantage, diving his tongue between my lips. I bring my hands up, sliding my fingers through his soft, messy hair. He slams me harder into the bookshelf, growling into my mouth. "You're a mess. A fucking disaster."
I pull on his hair, feeling the threads break between my fingers. "You're the worst person I've ever met in my entire life," I breathe.
His hands drop, and they fall to the bottom of my skirt. His hands lift, and my skirt bunches around my waist, my naked sex visible and feeling on fire as his eyes burn between my legs. I feel needy and so fucking dirty as my stepbrother engulfs my folds with his eyes. He leans back, staring between my legs. "Fucking witch."
My fingers drop from his hair, and I start working the buttons on his shirt. "Call me what you like. You'll forever be the devil in my book." I pull his shirt apart, and his hard stomach flexes and twitches from the exposed air. I run my fingers along his abs, wondering how someone can be so perfect and so flawed at the same time. He's essentially the perfect human, looks-wise. But he's evil, completely damaged on the inside.
His fingers curl around the holes of my fishnets, and he pulls easily, ripping my tights in the process.
My folds are drenched, and he doesn't waste any time as his fingers slide between the slickness, spreading the wetness around and diving in with two long fingers. "Fuck off," he groans.
I tilt my head back, riding the high of his touch. There's so much—so fucking much feeling—as the hard pads of his fingers grind against the walls. I whimper, wanting to tell him to fuck me. Wanting to beg him, for the first time in my life. But I can't. Iwill notbeg him.
His free hand goes to his pants, and he rips his belt off and unbuttons, loosening them just enough to pull out his erection.
Holy shit.
It's massive, bigger than I've ever seen. It throbs in his hand as he grips it tightly, giving it a slow yank until a dribble of clear liquid drips from the tip.
