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“I know.” He leaned forward, wiping the glass. “Look.”
Her eyes hooked to the mirror, clearer now, and she shivered as their image confronted her, so carnal and passionate, so perfect.
“Keep watching,” he commanded, and he took her, hard, fast, as if he understood that she needed this, that rather than being slow and gentle and consoling her, she needed to own her humanity and strength, to reclaim the part of her that was being threatened by the stalker. As if he understood that she wanted to feel more alive than she ever had before—and he knew how to give that to her.
She cried out as an orgasm washed over her as the shower water did his back, and he paused, reaching around, gripping her breasts, then dropping a hand to her clit and feeling her pulsate around him, feeling the power of what he could do to her, of how urgent and imperative this love making was.
It was the most perfect thing he’d ever felt and yet, it wasn’t enough.
Driven by an understanding of her that defied explanation, he pulled out, and spun her around to face him, his chest moving with the torment of each breath, his eyes boring into her with urgency.
“I feel—Leo—God—I want…”
Before, her cheeks had been devoid of colour, her face ash white, but now, they were flushed pink, her eyes sparkling as pleasure strangled her body, removing anything but joy and euphoria. And he’d done that. Triumph joined with pleasure inside of him, stretching the addiction centers of his brain, so he wondered how he’d ever thought himself high from drugs or alcohol when there was joy such as this.
“But you didn’t…” her eyes dropped to his rock-hard arousal and her throat moved as she swallowed, eyes lifting back to his, clearly showing confusion.
“No.” A gruff command.
“Oh.” She bit down on her lip and he growled, the sight of her teeth sinking into the pillowy pink flesh overtaking him, so he kissed her, then dragged her lower lip betweenhisteeth, feeling its pillowy softness before breaking apart and staring down at her, dazed and lost, in this landscape of passion.
“Do you trust me?”
He knew the answer, but at the same time, consent was so important. He understood that instinctively. Her liberty had been threatened. She’d had relationships in the past in which her autonomy had been threatened, and a stalker was pursuing her now, hunting her, with the aim of doing exactly that. Leonidas would always want her explicit approval; he would never take what wasn’t offered freely, not from anyone, but especially not from Mila. He needed to hear her tell him that she was completely his, that her surrender was absolute, her trust likewise.
“Mila?” It was an urgent demand.
“Yes,” she nodded quickly, and then he was kissing her and lifting her, carrying her wet body over the tiles then onto the carpeted floor of her bedroom, before dumping her, sopping wet, onto the center of the bed. She pushed up, dark hair like a curtain around her shoulders.
“Stay there,” he commanded, eyes holding a warning. She did as he said, not moving, but watching, as he crossed the room and removed a cord from one of the curtains, then turned back to her.
“You trust me,” he said, no longer needing her assurance but repeating it anyway. And she nodded, eyes on his.
“Absolutely. And I still want you.”
Triumph surged in his body.
He moved close, so close he could smell her sweet vanilla fragrance, and see the fine coating of goosebumps that danced over her skin.
“I’m going to tie you up,” he said slowly. “And I am going to drive you wild with your desire for me, before I take you again, and again. Do you understand.”
Eyes huge, she nodded, lifting her hands towards him in yet another silent, necessary invitation.
A muscle jerked in his jaw as he stared back at her, a sense of fatalism guiding his movements now, the same fatalism that had drawn them together from the first. It terrified him, because he knew how wrong this was, how forbidden, and yet he was powerless, for the first time in a long time, to control himself. He straddled her, deliberately moving his cock over her womanhood, so she lifted her hips, begging him to enter her. And he would, but not yet.
Capturing her wrists, he held them firm in his grip, lifting them over her head, weaving the cord around them, then through the bed head, pulling tight, so that no matter how she moved, there would be no release, no accidental loosening. She shivered and he flicked a glance to her briefly, eyes seeking hers, and reassurance.
In response, she smiled at him, and something churned way down low in his gut, a feeling he hadn’t known before, a sense that was too difficult to understand, much less analyse, he only knew that it was different and novel, that it was shifting from his gut to his chest to his ribs to his arms, that it was changing him in some strange way, making him feel a thousand kinds of different.
But then she writhed beneath him, flicking a little, so he pressed his mouth to hers, pushing her back into the pillow, and she whimpered, so he moved his arousal against her, promising, teasing, taunting, before drawing his mouth lower to her breasts.
They had obsessed him since that first night, when she’d accused him of breaking in, and his body had crushed hers; he’d felt her beneath him, every detail of every curve, and had relished in her contradictions to him, but for the first time, he properly devoted himself to her breasts, to understanding every inch of them, tasting, sucking, kissing, flicking, needling, until she was crying his name over and over, so close to orgasm, so desperate for him. He understood it, and yet he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
He wanted to take her, he wanted to lose himself to the powerful orgasm that was brewing in his balls, but first, he needed to feel this, all of this, to lavish her with adoration, and yes, to torment her with the wait for what they both wanted.
Never before had he been so invested. Sex was sex. A physical act. There was little to be gained from prolonging the inevitable, from postponing the pleasure, but everything was different with Mila. He was testing his strength, as though he understood that he would need to be strong, stronger than he’d ever been, with her.
He flicked the water from her breasts, catching it with his tongue, then traced a line lower, to the flatness of her stomach and finally, to the core of her womanhood. His hands moved to grip her thighs, separating them, his fingers pressing hard to the flesh there, his eyes feasting on her, desperate to see her like this, before he tasted her, groaning against her sex as she quivered, then bucked hard, trying to move legs that were imprisoned by his steady, sure grip.
