Page 52 of The Arbiter
The cold forest air hitting my bare skin makes me shiver violently, but it’s not just the temperature. He looks absolutely feral right now, his gaze pierced on the thin fabric covering my most sensitive spot. After a brief moment of taking in my appearance, mapping me out like a piece of art he finally owns, he bows his head to my bruised knee.
Then, he places soft, lingering kisses over the raw skin of my wound. My hand slams over my mouth, trying to suppress the moan that is threatening to escape despite the absolute terror of the situation. The contrast of his rough, tattooed hands on my skin and the tenderness of his lips is paralyzing.
“The only hand suppressing your voice and your breathing should be mine. Let me hear you, Madeline,” he orders firmly.
His voice is a low vibration that I feel deep in my bones.
I shake my head in desperate protest, my cheeks flushed with a heat that has nothing to do with the night air. I'm embarrassed, confused, and dangerously close to breaking. But he doesn’t force me. In fact, he surprises me completely.
”Please?”
He yearns. The word is a whisper, a plea, and yet his tone remains dark and demanding.
My body is betraying every principle I’ve ever held. I can feel the sudden, heavy wetness soaking into my lace panties, a reaction I can't stop, caused by the very man who forced me on my knees only an hour ago.
I slowly pull my hand away from my mouth. He smiles against my skin, the heat of his breath sending a jolt through my entire nervous system.
“Good girl,” he praises, the words dripping with a dark satisfaction.
His kisses slide slowly, agonizingly, up my thigh. I can feel the tension in his shoulders, the sheer power he’s holding back. Each inch he gains up my leg feels like he’s reclaiming territory that was always meant to be his.
“Is this... is this your definition of ‘easing the pain’?”
I breathe out, my voice trembling so much I can barely recognize myself.
He stops, his face just inches away from the edge of my silk underwear. He looks up at me, his dark eyes clouded with a hunger that makes my knees buckle.
“Does your mind still concentrate on the pain, or something else?”
His tone is almost amused. A predatory edge to his smirk. He doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, he reaches up, his fingers hooking into the sides of my panties, pulling me flush against him while he's still on his knees.
The heat radiating from his body is intoxicating. I find myself leaning into him, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer even though every rational cell in my brain is screaming at me to run.
"Answer me, Mali," he growls, his nose brushing against the damp fabric.
"Where is the pain now?"
"Gone," I whisper, my head falling back against the tree.
"It's gone."
"Good," he murmurs, as he pulls me even closer to his face.
"Because I haven't even started with the cure yet."
He doesn't wait for me to recover. His hands, large and warm, slide around to cup me, his fingers digging into my skin with a possessive firmness that anchors me to this moment.
"Gone," I whisper again, my voice trailing off into a broken hum. The pain in my knee is a distant memory, replaced by a thrumming, electric heat that is centered entirely where his mouth is.
With a sudden, fluid movement, he hooks his teeth into the delicate lace at my hip and tugs. My breath hitches, a sharp gasp escaping my throat as I feel the fabric give way. He isn't being gentle anymore; the "care" has shifted into something much more primal.
He strips the remaining silk down my legs, leaving me completely exposed to the biting night air and his relentless, burning gaze.
I feel raw. Vulnerable. But as he looks up at me, kneeling between my trembling thighs, I don't see a killer. I see my own personal eclipse.
"You’re shaking, Mali," he notes, his thumbs tracing the line of my hip bones.
"Is it the cold? Or is it me?"
