You’re the Beast.
You’re a mobster.
You’re my brother’s best friend.
None of the words will come out. All I can do is grind against him as the heel of his palm finds my sweet spot through my clothes. He stops kissing so that he can cradle my back, looking at me as if he wants to watch the show.
A whimper escapes me as he grinds up and down, his hand crushing my underwear and making my clit throb. His eyes brim with complete attentiveness, as if a bomb could go off outside and he wouldn’t be able to stop.
He slips his hand toward my waistband.
“No.” I choke on the word. “Not – that.”
Another knowing smile. It’s like he says,You think it makes it better if it’s outside the clothes?
He grinds his hand faster, harder. My hips take control as I rock in time with him, riding his hand like it’s his cock, my hands pressing so hard against his back, one of my fingernails snaps.
I feel a sharp jolt, but then the pain recedes. Soon, all I can feel is his unrelenting motion against my sore, each stroke drawing me closer and closer to a crescendo I should want no part in.
He brings his mouth to my neck, kisses, then bites softly. “Fuck,” he growls. “I can feel how close you are.”
This has gone far enough.
He pushes two fingers against my clit through my clothes, finding it with pinpoint accuracy, rubbing with the perfect amount of pressure. Enough to make me feel owned. Enough to make me like it. But gentle enough so it feels like my choice… is that a good or bad thing?
“Ah, ah,” I gasp, pushing my face against his sweaty chest, tasting him. “Oh, my…”
“Come for me,” he groans. “Cream for me, Celine. Fuck. I can feel you getting hot and wet through your clothes. You’re making me so fucking hard.Fuck.”
My orgasm crashes into me, my toes curling, my world shrinking to the size of this moment and nothing else. I bite on his sweaty chest, tasting him, as my release flows through me, flooding my underwear, a hot, sizzling release that leaves me breathless.
When it’s over, I regret it… and I don’t.
Conflicted is my middle name.
“That was wrong,” I say, panting.
“No argument there,” he grunts.
“We shouldn’t have done that.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “But?—”
“No…” I push against him for real this time before he can finish the thought, before he can draw me in again.
Why can’t I control myself around this man?
“I want to check on Rico.”
He tilts his head. “What?”
“He hit his head on the wall. He’s probably hurt. I have a duty of care.”
“Even for people who don’t deserve it?”
“Especially for them. That’s what makes it a duty. I’m serious, Damian. I’ve been lied to, gaslit, and disrespected. You owe me this much.”
He takes a step back, fists clenched, knuckles red from the heavy bag, eyes feral from our heat, then he sighs. “Okay, Celine. I’ll give you what you want.”
