Fuck.
I swing around, biting down the fear at the giant, very red-eyed man before me, letting my fury match his so I don't get swept away in a flood of terror.
"You have cameras all over my apartment."
"You broke into my private office."
"You've beenwatchingme! There's fucking cameras and microphones covering every inch of my home!" My voice doesn't shake, but the effort to keep it that way increases.
"Isla," he grits. "I don't think now is the time to trade off on which invasion of privacy is worse."
"You only say that because yours is and we both know it." Angry pressure builds behind my eyes, and I blink it away. "How long?"
If he feels any guilt, he certainly doesn't show it. "I had the cameras installed in December, and the people tailing you since November."
Shame brings heat to my face, thinking of all the times I masturbated right on that bed where he, or whoever else was here, was watching me. I storm forward, shoving him to try to make him feel as shitty as I do, even though I know it's futile. "You fucking asshole," I bite. "You planted people, cameras, everything in my life. I've never stood a chance at getting away from you."
"You and your friends were doingnothingto keep you s—"
"Oh, spare me the fucking bullshit about my life and my safety," I shove him again. "Did you get off on watching me, you sick fuck? On getting to see me all alone in my home while I—" I can't even force the humiliating words out, but the message is clear.
With every ounce of strength I've got left, I push him aside, trying to squeeze past him to get upstairs before he can answer me, before he can humiliate me further.
One step. Two. Before the third can land, I collide with the wall, a fuming Eamon only barely clinging to his mortal form towering above me with one hand cradling my throat and the other cushioning the blow so my head doesn't crack on the concrete behind me.
He looks every bit the demon he is right now, with swirling scarlet eyes that I can feel locked on mine and canines far longer than any human's should be. His panting breaths match mine,and every instinct I have screams for me to run, hide, fight back, doanythingto get away from this monster.
But I'm frozen, lost in him and the way his scent wraps around me. The way the size of his hand on my neck and the pressure leave me lightheaded. Against all my better judgment, against any thought I might have, the flood between my legs drowns out any and all sense. I'm prey in the sights of the scariest predator that prowls the night, and I've never been fucking wetter. Half of me wants to escape; the other, more insistent half, screams to wrap my legs around him and feel if he's just as affected by this moment as me.
Quicker than I can think, he strikes, using his grip on my hair to wrench my head back, sending twin puncture wounds into my neck so quickly the pain comes before I even register what's happening. A scream leaves my throat, only to be cut off by the giant palm covering it as he takes from my throat. I can feel every drag as he sucks from the small holes, the pain so severe it's drugging, blissful, and agonizing at the same time.
He groans into my skin, tightening his grip and plastering his massive, rock-hard body against mine, his terrifyingly large dick pressing insistently against my hip as he holds me close.
A soft moan slips out even as I push against his chest, trying to shove him off of me before he actually doesseriousdamage. But when he rocks against me, groaning again, every thought empties from my head but the need to hear that sound as he buries himself inside of me, filling me so wholly, stretching me until I can't take any more.
"Eamon," I finally manage to whimper out, and his mouth stops its assault on my neck.
He looks down at me, blood smeared across his lips and running down his chin. With a wicked, crimson-soaked grin, he places his hand back around my neck, his thumb resting right over the painful wounds. The warm dribble of blood cascadesdown my neck, and he watches the slow fall of it until it falls between my tits, the tiny silk pajamas barely covering them.
With painstaking slowness, he leans in, laying his tongue flat against my sternum and licking a long stripe up my front, all the way up to where his hand caresses my throat. A filthy, depraved moan leaves my mouth, the warm softness of his tongue against my skin sending sharp, almost painful spikes of pleasure between my legs.
Standing up to his full height, he angles my head up forcefully. "Open your mouth."
I stare up at him, dumbfounded. He couldn't possibly have just said what I think he said.
Squeezing my neck, he repeats, "Open your fucking mouth, Isla."
Accepting my fate, I do as he says, opening as wide as I can with his bruising, harsh grip around my throat, sticking my tongue out.
The second I do, he groans again, flexing his hands against me like he can't help it. I don't dare move, scared of breaking this spell we're both stuck in together.
The second the spit hits my tongue, the flavors of him and whiskey and the unmistakable copper of my blood bloom across my mouth, making my eyes flutter at the utter indecency and depravity. I only have a split second to savor it before his lips are on mine, sucking my tongue into his mouth as if he needs every drop of my blood and can't let even thesmallestbit go to waste. His tongue sweeps against mine, his lips harshly commanding mine open to take every second of this wild torture.
When I break away to breathe, he moves his mouth down my throat, rubbing his lips against the slow trickle of warmth still cascading down it, making an absolute mess of us both.
"I did watch you," he coos against my skin. "I watched you take one of those toys and fuck yourself with it over and over again, screaming and sighing and so fucking gorgeous."
A humiliated and very horny whimper escapes me again as he continues to taunt against my blood and sweat-slicked skin.
