“Whore. Wife,” I say. “I see no difference.”
Maximus’s hand stills on my thigh, and the other shoots out to grip the front of my neck, using that hold to push up my head. Our gazes clash, and then he slams me into the seat so hard that my teeth click and my vision momentarily blurs. He leans over me and squeezes my throat, pressing my spine into the leather with his forearm on my sternum.
“You’re right. I don’t see a difference either.”
The cold, flat tone of his voice is completely at odds with the glow in his eyes. The dark orbs are no longer purely black but like a bright pair of coals, burning with strong emotion. And his body betrays him, just as much as mine does. He kneads the spot above my pulse with his thumb over and over as if to soothe the restrained fury that’s trying to surface in him. And the fingers from his other hand dig into the skin of my hip, yet it’s almost like he’s pulling me to him.
Or pulling himself closer to me.
And then he yanks my panties down with such force the material cuts into my skin, and it burns, accentuated by the ripping of silk. I’m unable to stifle the small gasp of pain, and his thumb rubs my neck deeper. I imagine it’s so he can feel my reaction through the telltale racing of my heart.
I lie still and submit to Maximus because I don’t want to excite him. Then I brace myself for what is to come and pray that, like a child with a new toy, he grows tired of me quickly. I also pray he doesn’t break me to the point I’m no longer functional.
He slides his hand down to the juncture of my thighs, and I tense, but it doesn’t keep him from wrenching my legs apart, leaving one to dangle over the edge of the seat. After shoving up my nightgown so that it’s gathered in a heap on my stomach, he trains his attention on my sex that’s displayed to him without restriction. The lights from outside the window reveal the flaring of his nostrils and the shuddering breath that causes his chest to shake. Fear demands I close my eyes in order to protect myself from unwanted images, but the thought of being unable to see what’s coming is equally worrisome.
So I keep my eyes open and watch him touch me.
How could I have ever imagined him as my husband? What a stupid girl I was all those years ago to idolize him and fantasize about how he’d defend me against my father’s wrath, and the day he’d rescue me from my lonely tower. But I am no princess, and he is no prince.
I’m a mere human, and he is an incubus, a fallen angel who is siphoning sexual energy from me to sustain himself. Maybe he’s actually one of the Nephilim. Because even as I lie here, scared beyond measure, I’m still drawn to him.
He parts my folds and then grinds the pad of his thumb into my clit. I buck my hips without thought, and only his hand on my throat keeps me from dislodging his finger as he circles and presses the tiny bud. Blood fills my mouth when my teeth puncture my bottom lip, and still my whimper hits the air. The side of Maximus’s mouth lifts in satisfaction.
“You may not be a whore now, but that is about to change,” he says. I can barely comprehend what he’s saying to me. My body convulses with electrical currents originating from pleasure. And even though I know it’s from pure stimuli, I enjoy it as much as I wish it to cease.
Maybe more so.
“You will be my whore, mydonnaccia, but it won’t be for me to use your body.” He brings himself close enough for his breaths to skim my flushed cheeks and to cool the perspiration on my forehead brought on by my struggles to maintain control over my arousal. “You will hate yourself for enjoying what I do to you, for knowing that you gave me something you didn’t want me to have, and because you willingly played the whore for someone who would rather see you dead than alive.”
He adjusts his hand so his thumb covers the entrance to my sex, and he inserts it the tiniest bit, coating the digit with the dampness he finds there. Now his smirk is fully on display, and he brings his thumb back to my clit to begin the delicious torture again. This time, I do squeeze my eyes shut.
Until his hand on my throat cuts off my air supply.
My eyelids fly open, and despite the thrashing of my body and the shaking of my legs, my gaze remains firmly fixed on his.
My tormentor.
My lover.
My husband.
With my lungs burning at the lack of oxygen, I’m no longer able to keep my hands fisted at my sides. Instead, I’m grabbing at his fingers on my throat in a weak attempt to pry them away. It’s as effective as trying to remove a steel collar.
Maximus makes a soothing noise. “Relax,donnaccia. I didn’t go through all this trouble to kill you now. Believe it or not, you will enjoy this.” He waits until my nails dig into his skin and my clit is all but raw from his domineering caresses before he eases the pressure from my neck. I suck in a breath only to release it on a loud cry as my body explodes with sensation.
Pleasure assaults me, takes me prisoner, and conquers me.
I’m helpless to the tides of euphoria zipping along each and every nerve ending I possess. Maximus thrusts a finger inside my sex, and it greedily clenches around him. Shame and guilt attempt to rise but cannot overcome the orgasm wrecking me. He doesn’t allow it to stop and brings about another one by massaging my vaginal walls until tears fill my eyes and glide down my temples to disappear in the loose strands of my hair splayed across the seat.
Finally he removes the hand on my neck, but I almost wish he’d left it there when he pinches my nipple. This time, it’s more than one cry that pours from my mouth. His throaty chuckle penetrates the fog of sexual delirium I’m flailing in.
“Do you like the feel of your enemy’s touch,donnaccia?” he murmurs. It’s all I can do to focus enough to hear him above my panting. “Are you picturing my cock in place of my fingers?” He chooses that moment to insert a second finger into me, filling me to the point it borders on discomfort. And then he’s working them in and out of my body, first with languid strokes, then with more forceful ones that have me lifting my hips.
Am I rising to meet his touch? Or am I trying to evade it?
It doesn’t matter as my arousal builds to a crest, bringing with it anticipation. I want to come more than anything else in this moment and experience that all-consuming rapture once again. It is glorious, earth-shattering, and incomprehensible to someone like me, who’s never felt this way.
He plays with my breasts, tweaks my nipples, and continues the punishing thrusts of his fingers. I’m on the precipice of losing myself again to his ministrations, and in this moment I don’t care.
