I look down at her. She is kneeling between my legs, wearing my shirt, her hands stained with the evidence of my weakness. The absolute, unyielding power she holds over me in this moment is a terrifying revelation. I am a king completely subjugated by his queen.
And the darkest, most twisted part of my soul is violently, obsessively aroused by it.
"Come here," I growl, my voice dropping into a dark, demonic vibration that makes the tiny hairs on her arms stand straight up.
She blinks, the clinical focus in her eyes shattering, replaced instantly by a dark, heavy awareness. She looks up at my face.The fever is still burning in my veins, painting my cheeks with a dark flush, but my pale gray eyes are entirely black, completely swallowed by a feral, unadulterated hunger.
"Thayer, you need to rest," she whispers, her breath hitching as she registers the immediate, rigid shift in my posture.
"I need you to come here," I repeat, my right hand reaching out. My large, calloused fingers tangle brutally in the front of the black dress shirt she is wearing, gripping the fabric tightly.
I pull her forward and upward.
She gasps, her hands flying to my shoulders to steady herself as she is dragged off her knees. I pull her completely onto the sofa, forcing her to straddle my hips. She is incredibly mindful of my ruined left side, keeping her weight entirely centered over my lap, her bare knees sinking into the white linen cushions on either side of my thighs.
The sheer, physical friction of her body settling heavily against my groin is a catastrophic electrical shock. The thick, hard ridge of my arousal strains violently against the fabric of my dark trousers, completely demanding release.
"You are out of your mind," she breathes, her hands resting flat against my uninjured right chest, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and a deep, spreading heat. "You are burning with a fever. You just lost another pint of blood."
"I am exactly where I need to be," I murmur, my hand sliding from the front of her shirt to wrap securely around the back of her neck. I drag her face down, my lips hovering mere millimeters from hers. "You think you can just sew me up and walk away, Sybil? You think you can hold my life in your hands and not face the consequences?"
"What consequences?" she whispers, her gaze dropping to my mouth, her lips parting on a ragged, completely helpless sigh.
"The absolute surrender of your control," I snarl against her mouth, entirely devouring the kiss before she can draw another breath.
It is a violent, aggressive collision. I taste the salt of her sweat and the sharp, antiseptic tang of the medical supplies. My tongue invades her mouth, completely dominating her, mapping the soft, desperate heat of her palate. She moans, a high, breathy sound that completely shreds the last remaining fragments of my civilized restraint.
She pushes back slightly, breaking the kiss, her chest heaving violently against mine.
"Thayer, you can't," she gasps, her hands gripping my right bicep. "You can't move. Your shoulder will tear open again. The stitches won't hold if you try to take me."
"I know," I say, a dark, completely feral smirk curving my bruised lips. My pale eyes lock onto hers, burning with a possessive, commanding fire that completely strips the oxygen from the room. "That is why you are going to do all the work."
Her breath catches audibly. A deep, flushed crimson stain spreads rapidly across her chest, climbing up her throat to paint her cheeks.
The fragile, conditioned victim who spent eighteen years hiding in the shadows is entirely paralyzed by the command. But the Donna—the woman who shot a man, the woman who claimed the monster in the ruins of a haunted mansion—is absolutely, terrifyingly electrified by it.
"Take the shirt off," I command, my voice a low, heavy purr that vibrates directly into her core.
She doesn't hesitate. She sits up straight, entirely straddling my hips. Her hands move to the remaining buttons of the black dress shirt. Her fingers are trembling, but she forces them to work, undoing the fabric and pulling the garment entirely off her shoulders. She tosses it onto the floor, leaving her completely naked in the harsh, blinding light of the Caribbean sun.
She is a flawless, devastating vision. The sheer, unapologetic beauty of her completely robs me of my next breath.
"Now," I murmur, my right hand dropping to the heavy silver buckle of my belt. I flick it open with one hand, unzipping my trousers. "Free me."
She reaches down. Her small, cool hands slip past the waistband of my dark boxer briefs. The moment her skin makes contact with my heavy, aching length, my entire body violently arches off the cushions. I bite back a harsh groan, my jaw locking so tight my teeth grind.
She pulls the fabric down, entirely exposing me. She strokes me once, a slow, agonizingly deliberate slide of her palm from the base to the tip that completely scrambles my neural pathways.
"You are so beautiful," she whispers, her eyes dark, completely consumed by the power she holds in her hands.
"Show me who you belong to, Sybil," I demand, my right hand gripping her hip, my fingers digging possessively into her soft flesh. "Ride me."
She rises up onto her knees, positioning herself entirely over me. She is completely soaked, her inner thighs slick with a heavy,desperate heat that completely betrays her own overwhelming need.
She slowly, agonizingly lowers her hips.
I gasp, a raw, fractured sound tearing from my throat as her tight, scalding velvet entirely engulfs the tip of my length. The sensation is absolute torture. The fever burning in my blood amplifies every single nerve ending, making the physical contact feel like a brand searing directly into my soul.
