He laughs once, low and dangerous.
Then he kisses down my throat to my collarbone, right where the bruise lives.
The moment his mouth hits that spot, the air in him changes.
He goes still.
A sound rips out of him, rough and ugly.
He lifts his head and his eyes are black.
“It’s my fault,” he says, and his voice is cold enough to scare me, “I’m going to peel his hands off his wrists.”
My breath stutters.
His hand stays between my thighs, steady, possessive.
“You don’t get to say things like that,” I whisper. “You don’t get to act like you care when—”
“When I’m engaged?” he finishes, sharp.
He leans in close until his mouth is at my ear.
“I care,” he says. “I cared the whole time. I just didn’t have the luxury of showing it.”
His fingers thrust once, deep, slow, and my entire body jerks.
A sound breaks out of me.
His mouth closes over it, kissing me hard, swallowing it like he wants to keep it.
His hand moves again, faster now, sure like he remembers my body better than my mind does.
The room spins.
The muffled bass outside becomes a pulse in my bones.
I grab his shoulders. I pull him closer. I hate myself for needing this.
He’s breathing hard now, chest tight, restraint cracking.
“You’re gonna come,” he murmurs, and it sounds like an order.
“I’m not—” I try to lie.
His thumb circles my clit and my words die.
My whole body locks.
Heat tears through me. I come so hard my vision whites out at the edges, my back arching, my mouth opening on a sound I can’t stop.
Diablo holds me through it, fingers steady, mouth pressed to my throat like he’s tasting the proof.
When I finally breathe again, I’m shaking.
He watches my face like he’s learning something he already knew. Then he steps back and drags his shirt up, wiping his mouth with the edge of it like he’s trying to control himself again.
Like he can.
