He reaches out, his fingers gently tracing the line of my jaw, then the curve of my lips. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I remember his kiss. The intoxicating taste of him. The dangerous thrill.
“Tonight,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to my lips, “we begin.”
He leans in, slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull away. But I don’t. I can’t. My eyes flutter shut, waiting.
His lips are soft, warm, and utterly devastating. The taste of him is a heady mix of mint and something primal, a flavor that sears itself onto my tongue. He doesn’t just kiss me; he consumes me, his mouth moving with a slow, deliberate hunger that promises both pleasure and possession.
My body ignites. A white-hot current shoots through me, melting my resistance. My hands, which had been clenched into fists, instinctively reach for him, tangling in the dark hair at his nape. I pull him closer, a desperate, guttural sound escaping my throat. His arms wrap around my waist, hauling my curvy frame against his hard, unyielding body. The friction of our clothes, the heat radiating from him, is an exquisite torment. My breasts ache, my nipples tightening to painful points against his chest.
This is wrong. This is my captor. This is the monster.
Yet, as his tongue delves deeper, exploring the soft cavern of my mouth, a wild, untamed pleasure unfurls within me. All thought dissolves into sensation. There is only the searing contact of our bodies, the intoxicating taste of him, thedangerous thrill of his dominance. I am a moth to his flame, burning, yet unable to pull away.
I am lost to the moment, surrendering to the dangerous, intoxicating pleasure of his kiss. A dark, dangerous part of me, against all reason, is not just listening, but craving.
Twenty Three
Kaden
Themomentherhandstangle in my hair, pulling me closer, a guttural sound of pure need escaping her throat, that is the moment I win.
A bolt of triumphant lust, so potent it nearly blinds me, surges through my veins. This is no longer the timid, terrified girl who flinched at my touch. This is a woman, starved and desperate, finally awakening to her own desires. And I am the one who woke her.
Her body, soft and curvy, molds against mine, a perfect fit. I can feel the frantic beat of her heart against my chest, the tremor of her surrender. My kiss becomes a conquest, my tongue a marauder, claiming every inch of her sweet, wet mouth. She meets me with equal ferocity, a wild, untamed energy that I have been dying to unleash.
I break the kiss, my lips trailing a fiery path down her jaw, to the soft, tender skin of her throat. I taste her pulse, a frantic, fluttering bird beneath my tongue. She arches her neck, a silent offering, giving me more of her.
“Kaden,” she breathes, my name a broken, desperate prayer on her lips.
That sound is my undoing.
My hands, which had been gripping her waist, begin to move, to explore. I slide one hand up her back, my fingers tracing the delicate knobs of her spine. The other hand moves to the front, my palm flattening against her stomach, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin cashmere.
She shivers, a full-body tremor, but she doesn’t pull away. She leans into my touch, a silent invitation.
I need more. I need all of her.
With a low growl, I push her back onto the bed, my body following hers, covering her, pinning her beneath me. Her eyes fly open, a flicker of fear returning, but it’s quickly consumed by a dawning, dark excitement.
“You are so beautiful, Snowflake,” I murmur, my voice rough with desire. “So perfectly made.”
I reach for the hem of her sweater, my fingers brushing against the soft skin of her stomach. She sucks in a breath, her eyes locking onto mine, a silent question in their depths.
I don’t ask for permission. I pull the sweater up and over her head, tossing it aside. She lies before me, clad only in the black lace bra I chose for her, her pale, creamy skin a stark contrast to the dark silk sheets. Her breasts are full, her nipples hard, straining against the delicate fabric. She is a masterpiece. A feast.
“Mine,” I growl, my gaze devouring her.
I lower my head, my lips tracing the line of her collarbone, then moving lower, to the swell of her breast. I kiss the soft skin above the lace, then take the fabric in my teeth, pulling it down, freeing her. Her breast spills into my hand, full and heavy, a perfect fit.
She gasps, her back arching, her fingers digging into my shoulders. I take her nipple into my mouth, my tongue laving the sensitive peak, my teeth gently grazing. She cries out, a sharp, high-pitched sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
This is what I wanted. This is the symphony I have been waiting to conduct.
My hand moves lower, over the curve of her hip, to the waistband of her cashmere pants. I slide my fingers beneath the fabric, my touch hot against her skin. She is wet. So wet. For me.
I pull the pants down, my movements urgent, desperate. She helps me, her hips lifting, her legs parting. I strip them from her, leaving her exposed, vulnerable, clad only in the tiny scrap of black lace that covers her sex.
I move down her body, my lips leaving a trail of fire on her skin. I kiss her stomach, her hips, the inside of her thigh. She is trembling, her body a live wire of sensation.
