Page 157 of Problematic

“Greedy, Little Flower,” he murmured.

His hand slid back into my hair, and his fingers tightened. He guided himself back into my mouth.

This time, I didn’t tease.

I wrapped my lips around him and took him deep, licking and sucking until his control finally broke. His hips drove forward in short, rough thrusts, his hand firm in my hair, his voice wrecked above me.

“Fuck, Liv. That’s it. Take it. Take what you asked for.”

I moaned around him.

His cock pulsed against my tongue.

“Swallow,” he ordered.

I did.

He came hard, spilling into my mouth while his whole body went taut above me. I drank down every drop, holding his thighs, letting him watch me do it.

“Good girl,” he said, voice rough and low. “Do you still want more?”

I nodded.

Then that awful smile came back.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not done with you for the night.” He bent and kissed me.

The room quieted around us. My body felt shaky, full, warm. A little drunk on him and books and too much money.

He noticed the shift immediately.

“Bath,” he said.

“I can walk.”

“You can wobble.” His grin went crooked. He stood and scooped me up again.

The bathroom looked like the spa villainesses visited before betraying someone. Black tile. Huge tub. Soft gold light. Heated floor, because of course. He set me down and started the tap. Steam rose. Bubbles foamed up, thick and fragrant. Vanilla, smoke, and something floral.

“Too hot?” I asked.

“Perfect.”

“Psychopath.”

“You take baths hot enough to make your bathroom door sweat.” He stepped into the tub first, sweatpants gone, mask still over his face.

I pointed at him. “You’re naked and still wearing a mask.”

“I told you. Rules.”

I took his hand and eased into the water. Scalding. Borderline reckless. Perfect. I sank down with a groan and settled between his legs, back against his chest. For a minute, neither of us spoke. Far below, New Abaddon kept moving while I floated in expensive bathwater against a masked nightmare.

“What’s your designation?” I asked.

His chest moved under my cheek. A silent laugh. “They’re classified.”

“They,” I repeated. “Plural.”