Page 56 of Bound Enemies
I lean in closer, bare inches away from her luscious mouth. ‘Too bad he’s dead,’ I murmur. ‘What will you do now he’s gone? You could come crawling to me, of course, but I’m afraid that ship has sailed. I don’t do sloppy seconds.’
She’s breathing very fast and I can see how her pulse races at the base of her throat, and without thought I loosen my grip on her chin, trailing my fingertips down the sides of her neck, before wrapping them around her throat, my palm pressing down gently on her pulse.
I should let her go, push myself away, turn my back on her once and for all, yet no matter how intensely I want this, I can’t seem to make myself do it. Her skin is warm and silky, and her scent—some kind of flower—is intoxicating.
She gasps, her eyes darkening into the deepest violet, a night sky as the moon rises. ‘Let me go,’ she whispers. ‘You don’t want this.’
I don’t. At all. But she hasn’t given me the truth yet, and I will have it. ‘Say stop,’ I murmur. ‘And I will.’
Her gaze drops once again to my mouth and I can feel her tremble. I can feel the pulse at the base of her throat beating hard against my palm. She swallows convulsively, her fingers curling into the wool of my jacket.
She does not say stop.
‘You can’t, can you?’ I move closer, my body slowly pressing against hers. She’s so soft and so very hot. ‘I bet even now you’re wet for me the way you were wet for me at the bar that night.’
‘No,’ she says in another husky little whisper. ‘No, I’m not.’
The time for me to move away has long gone, and something primitive deep inside of me knows it. This is a reckoning the both of us have been circling for the past eighteen months, and now it’s here we can’t avoid it. It’s fateful, almost. Promised, even.
I drop one hand to her hip and slide it slowly down the curve of her thigh over the top of her dress, her gaze trapped by mine. She’s staring at me as if she’ll fall to her death if she looks away, and I know I’ll fall to mine if I don’t touch her. So I ease my hand under the hem of her dress, finding the soft skin of her bare thigh, and then slide it higher, to the sensitive place between her thighs.
She shudders as I brush my fingers over the lacy fabric of her knickers, another breathy sound escaping her.
‘Liar.’ I press my fingertip against the soaking wet fabric, feeling her shake. ‘When you were with him, did you imagine it was me? Is that how you got yourself off?’
There is colour in her cheeks now, a deep flush that only makes her lovelier, and she’s trembling as I stroke her clit through her underwear. ‘Yes,’ she says hoarsely, the truth falling out of her. ‘I mean…n-no.’
But it’s too late, and we both know it.
A surge of base masculine satisfaction catches me, no matter how I fight it, which is something I’ll castigate myself for later on. Now, though, I’m obsessed with this confession. Obsessed with how she’s looking less and less like an ice queen and more and more like a wanton, desperate for a man’s cock. Formine.
I remove my hand from between her thighs and lift it to her mouth, easing my finger into the wet heat between her lips. She doesn’t resist, making another needy little sound as she tastes herself.
‘That’s how wet and hot you get when you think of me,’ I tell her in a rough voice, now totally at the mercy of my own hunger, not to mention the hunger I can see in her eyes. ‘That’s how you taste when you want my cock inside you.’
Something leaps in her gaze then, a blaze of fury and desire in one hot, toxic flame, and her teeth close on my finger. Hard.
I mutter a curse, pulling my finger away, and then I do the only thing I can.
I cover her sharp mouth with mine, kissing her the way I’ve burned to do for eighteen long months.
Chapter Three
Beatrix
I make noattempt to avoid his mouth. I can’t, not now he’s got one big hand gripping my throat, his long fingers pressed to my neck and his palm pressed to my pulse. And no matter how much I tell myself I don’t want his kiss, I’m lying. I do want it. I want it with every breath in me.
The moment I touched him I knew I was lost, overwhelmed completely by his physical magnetism and my inability to resist it. He was not wrong when he said I wanted him to manhandle me. I do. I can’t help it and I hate myself for it.
The same way I hate myself for imagining him instead of Antonio touching me, because he’s right about that too. My relationship with Antonio was physical to a certain extent. He never insisted that I share his bed, but I knew he wanted me to. He was lonely, desperate for some physical comfort and warmth, and I felt sorry for him.
I know what it is to yearn for that comfort and warmth. To yearn for touch, any kind of touch, just to remind you that you’re real, that you exist, and that you’re part of society and not merely living on the edges of it.
I wasn’t experienced sexually. I was always careful around men, since a woman on her own with nothing and no one can be a target, but everything about our relationship was clear and upfront, and so I didn’t feel unsafe. It cost me nothing to give him some physical comfort. I’m a little ashamed to admit that I pretended to be satisfied, but he was very male in his need to feel confident of his virility, and so I gave him that. Again, it cost me nothing.
Yet I know the moment Santiago’s beautiful mouth covers mine that this is going to cost me everything. His kiss is rough, hot, demanding. A devastating force of nature that I can’t do anything but surrender to, even though I know I shouldn’t. Even though I know it’s dangerous.
His tongue pushes into my mouth, where I can still taste myself, and now I can taste him too. It’s the dark, forbidden flavour of everything you crave that you know is bad for you, but that you can’t resist tasting again and again. And I can’t resist it. I tilt my head back and give in. I want to kiss him back, but he won’t let me, exploring my mouth hungrily and taking everything like a conqueror sacking the castle he’s just captured.
