Page 111 of Arrow
“Which is?”
“That you want this.” His hand moved higher, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of my inner thigh. “That you’ve wanted this since the announcement dinner with your father. Since I put that collar around your throat and you looked at me like you wanted to kill me and fuck me at the same time.”
My breath hitched. I hated that he heard it.
“You don’t know what I want.”
“Don’t I? Tell me you don’t think about me when you’re alone in your room. Tell me you don’t imagine what it would feel like if I stopped being patient and just took what’s already mine.”
“You’re not—”
“I’m not what?” His other hand came up, fingers wrapping around the back of my neck, pulling me closer until there was nowhere left to hide. “I can feel your pulse, Harlowe; it’s racing. You’re terrified to admit that everything you thought you knew about me was wrong. That I’m not the monster you wanted me to be—I’m worse. Because you want the monster.”
“That’s not—”
“Your mind finally stopped fighting your body, Harlowe. They’re on the same side now, and you hate it. You hate that you can’t tell the difference between what you want and what you need from me. You’re not scared—you’re starving.”
“Let go of me.”
“Make me.”
I grabbed his shirt and yanked him toward me.
Our lips brushed, his breath warm against my mouth, but he didn’t close the distance. He held himself there, a fraction of an inch away, letting me feel the heat of him without giving me what I wanted.
His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the edge of my underwear. “Is this what you want? Me touching you in the back of a car like some desperate teenager?”
“Shut up,” I gasped against his mouth.
He smiled against my lips, and something in me snapped.
“Fuck it,” I breathed, then slammed my mouth against his with all the desperation I’d been holding back.
No more pretense.
No more resistance.
All that was left was the brutal collision of his lips and mine, his hands gripping my waist as I pulled him closer.
My fingers tangled in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him groan.
His body covered mine, pressing me back against the seat, and his hand moved between my thighs. The sound that escaped me was half-moan, half-curse, and he swallowed it, his mouth never leaving mine as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric of my underwear.
I arched into his touch, my hips involuntarily moving against his hand, and he pulled back enough to breathe against my lips.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Stop fighting it. Stop pretending you don’t want me to fuck you right here.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.” His fingers slipped inside me. “But you’re so fucking wet for me, aren’t you?”
I bit his lip, and he pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and there was blood on his mouth that matched the blood on mine.
My hand dropped to his belt, fingers working the buckle. He caught my wrist, held it there.
“Not yet.”
I shifted beneath him, letting my knees fall open wider, and pushed his fingers deeper inside me. The stretch made me gasp, made my hips roll against his hand in a rhythm I couldn’t control.
