Page 39 of Devil’s Reign

“No, thank you,” I mumble.

Returning the cuffs, I reach for the next item, desperate for something to diffuse the sexual heat crackling in the air. I choose the folded note, thinking it’s the safest option. But as I lift it, something slips out—a single hotel room keycard. I don’t know how, but I know it’s not for this suite.

“That one,” he says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “is for when I get bored.”

He winks at me, and I gulp. “Wh-what does that mean?”

He lifts his index finger to his lips and smiles wickedly. “It’s a secret.”

The implication is too much for me to handle right now, but my mind races with possibilities as I shove the keycard back without reading the note.

I don’t want to look at him. I can’t. Not without my cheeks flushing. But the soft rustle of fabric draws my attention back in his direction, and I almost swallow my tongue when he gets to his feet. Without warning, he starts walking towards me. Shit.

My body doesn’t know whether to run or kneel. I rub my thighs together, biting my lip as he approaches. He sits at the edge of the bed right in front of me, close enough that his knees brush my hip. The seemingly innocent contact sends sparks racing through my body.

As if sensing my reaction, he leans forward, his warm breath fanning my jaw. It’s distracting. Addicting.

“Continue,” his fingers graze my sides.

My hands are trembling violently now as I grab the next item—a pair of platinum cufflinks engraved with his initials. “For your suits,” I whisper.

He doesn’t make me repeat it this time, so I drop them back into the drawer. For a split-second, my hand hovers over the unopened box of condoms. No. Not yet.

I reach for the photograph instead. “Your dad?” I ask, holding it up to show him.

His face shutters like a door closing. “Put it back.”

“I—”

His hand clamps around my wrist, and I freeze, shocked.

“Now.”

I drop the photograph without further argument, and he slides the drawer shut with a slow push, trapping me between his warm chest and the polished wood. He stays like that for a moment, then lets go.

Standing, he straightens his jacket. “We’ll continue this later.”

My body is still thrumming when he walks out of the room, slamming the door behind him. I’m not entirely sure what I thought was going to happen, but I’m left strung tight with restless tension as I sit there, wondering what the hell just happened.

It takes longer than I’d care to admit before I gather the sense to leave his room. But when I finally do, it’s with unexpected fervor. I practically speed-walk to my bedroom. The second the door shuts behind me, I’m stripping off my clothes and making a beeline for the bathroom. I need release—now, now, now.

I’m nearly out of my mind with arousal. I was so sure he was about to fuck the living daylights out of me—how could he just walk away like that? It must have been the picture. What the hell is that all about?

I make a mental note to figure it out, but before it’s filed away, I pass by the mirror above the bathroom sink, and my reflection stops me in my tracks. Flushed cheeks. Parted lips. Wide, dark eyes. Goddamn. I look completely wrecked—and he never even touched me.

I step into the shower, and twist the water on full blast.

The spray hits me hard, but it doesn’t cool the fire burning under my skin. I press my forehead to the tile, palm flat against the wall, my chest heaving with my panting breaths. My nipples are tight and sensitive, begging for relief. I pinch one between my fingers, rolling and tugging until I hiss through my teeth. My thighs rub together restlessly, seeking friction that isn’t enough. Every inch of me is wired, aching. Aching for him.

I can’t stop seeing him. Can’t stop hearing his voice ordering me to explain each item in the drawer. The cuffs. The hotel keycard and that knowing look on his face. The way he stared at me was as if he could see every filthy thought running through my mind. My hand slides between my legs, but it’s still not enough. I need it harder, with more pressure. I need more.

I yank the showerhead down and turn the setting until the spray sharpens into a steady pulse. Spreading my legs wide, I aim it at my clit. The first hit makes me gasp so loudly that it echoes off the tile walls. The pressure is fierce, pounding, almost unbearable, but I hold it there. My hips jerk forward, chasing the sensation, grinding helplessly against the stream. This man has turned me into an animal.

One hand grips the wall while the other clutches my breast, twisting my nipple until my knees threaten to give out. The spray hammers against me, and all I can think about is Vanya—not leaving. Staying. Shoving me against his nightstand with his hand wrapped around my throat, his belt buckle biting into my stomach as he drives into me. Rough, unrelenting, like he owns every part of me.

My hips rock faster, matching the pulse of the water. My stomach tightens. My thighs begin trembling uncontrollably. Every nerve ending is on fire, straining, ready to snap. The orgasm barrels into me before I can catch my breath. My body jerks, arching off the wall, and a cry tears out of my throat—his name, loud, broken, dragged from the very center of my being. “Vanya!”

I can’t stop it. It rips through me, sharp and brutal, leaving me shaking under the spray, my legs barely able to hold my weight. I slump forward, forehead resting against the tile, water cascading down my back. My chest heaves as I struggle to catch my breath, my thighs still quivering with lingering aftershocks.