And the problem is, the more I think about it, the more I find myself groaning at myself because I'mfrustratedthat he hasn’t yet.
Like, what thefuck, self? Do I actuallywant himto fuck me?
No. Obviously. For all of the reasons, but mainly the one spelled L-A-R-K.
But the longer things stretch out with this…thinghanging over me, the more it creeps into my thoughts. Tap-tap-tapping at the windows of my reality. Lingering in the shadows as I'm trying to fall asleep.
It’s like waiting for a jump-scare in a movie that doesn’t come, and my nerves areshot.
Andthat’swhy I find myself walking through the penthouse toward Bane’s home office, which I found earlier while I was skulking around.
I open the door without knocking, because apparently that’s not a thing we do in this house. Bane’s eyes snap to mine as he looksup from his desk, his phone to his ear and a black expression etched across his very, very angry face.
Shit.
He barks something in Russian brusquely into the phone. I quickly turn to leave, realizing what an enormous mistake I’ve made barging in here. But as my fingers touch the knob, his voice slices through the room.
“Stop right there, little bird.”
A dark, ominous sensation ripples up my spine, wrapping like claws around my nape and keeping me pinned where I am. I shiver as I glance back, seeing his phone lying on his desk with the mute button now lit up.
I swallow nervously when Bane lifts his hand and crooks a finger at me.
“Come here.”
“It's okay, I can see you’re busy with?—”
“Come.Here.”
The words drop from his lips like a tiger’s purred growl. My core tightens, my pulse skipping as I slowly walk across the room toward him.
“What did you need,” he murmurs.
I stop a few feet away from him and shake my head. “Nothing.”
Bane’s eyes pierce into mine. He remains quiet, but I canfeelthe black energy rolling off him and ensnaring my ankles, stopping me from turning and running.
“Nothing. Really,” I stammer.
He still doesn't speak, just slowly stands from his desk. My breath catches as he towers over me, dark eyes stabbing into mine. He raises his hand, and beckons me again with two fingers.
“Stand here,” he growls, twisting his hand so that his fingers now point to a spot on the floor directly in front of him, to the side of his desk.
Not a fucking chance.
“You’re on a call,” I mumble. “I’ll come back?—”
One second, he’s still a few feet away. The next, he’s surging across the floor, grabbing me, bending me over, and pinning me face-down across his desk, a firm hand on the back of my neck.
I’m shaking, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Bane reaches over and unmutes his phone.
With his other hand, he grabs the back of my yoga pants and yanks them down over my ass. Heat tingles over my skin as he continues his phone conversation in Russian. His fingers slip into the back of my thong, and I shudder when he slowly peels it down and off me before letting it tangle with my yoga pants mid-thigh.
He continues to speak in a rough, somewhat angry voice. My body tenses, my heart thudding as I wait for the jump-scare thatstilldoesn’t materialize.
Mid-sentence, I suddenly yelp loudly when his hand smacks my ass, still tender and brutalized from last night.
Bane’s thick finger stabs the mute button. I hear multiple other men speaking in Russian as Bane winds up and roughly spanks me again.
