Royal’s fingers slide lower, stroking slow, devastating circles that pull a moan from me so loud it echoes.
“Say it, Becki.”
I break.I can’t deny it any longer.“Royal…”
He stops again.
I cry out, furious, desperate.
He smiles like a devil.
“Try again.”
My voice trembles.“Royal, I’m yours.”
He kisses me like he’s been starving for years.His mouth devours mine, tongue ring sliding against my tongue, teeth, metal and heat and hunger.His fingers move again, deep, fast, perfect, ruthless, dragging a shuddering climax out of me so intense my knees give.
He holds me up.
He always holds me up.
Even while destroying me.
I shake against him, trembling through the last waves, gasping his name like a prayer.
“You are Property of Royal,” he whispers.“And I will never let you go.”
The words land low and thick and final.
Royal presses his forehead to mine, panting, his voice turbulent.
“Take off the shirt,” he says.
My breath trembles, but I lift the hem and pull the shirt over my head.The air hits my back and chest and my skin pebbles instantly.Royal watches each part of me revealed.
His left hand, the ink-covered one, comes up and cups the nape of my neck.
Rough.
“You said you’re mine,” he murmurs.His breath ghosts across my cheek.“So I’m fixin’ to give you something that proves you’re not lying.”
His other hand lifts the knife.
The blade is polished.Sharp.Familiar now in the sickest, sweetest way.
My lungs stutter.
“Turn around.”
I do.
He steps behind me.His fingers sweep, brushing the back of my neck with a touch so careful it hurts worse than cruelty.
The knife kisses my spine.
Cold.Light.Testing.
My breath catches.
