Then I’ll have to kill him. There’s no other option.
The thought cheers me finally.
He releases my clit and rests his chin on my cleft. “Why are you smiling?”
I lose the grin and look down at him. “I’m plotting your death,” I pant.
One of his dark eyebrows rises. His fingers slide out of me.
This is good. I want him to stop. But I don’t. Not at all. As I’m struggling to find a thought, he flips me onto my stomach and smacks my ass five times.
Hard.
Then he turns me back over and roughly shoves all three fingers inside me again.
I gasp and arch against him, an erotic pain burning through me from both sides. What just happened? He hit me hard enough that I’ll wear his palm print for days. Even now, the burning cascades across my butt. My desire spirals even higher. The need is so great it hurts. Deep.
“Insolence and disrespect will be handled swiftly.” His black eyes hold the fires of hell. I just know it.
Then he dips his head and sucks my clit into his mouth, lashing me with his tongue.
I make an embarrassing sound deep in my throat and throw my head back on my pillow, colors flashing behind my closed eyelids. So many sensations bombard me that I can’t breathe. Don’t care to try.
His mouth releases me. “Say please, Rosie.”
Pride and a battered instinct for self-preservation battle with this unreal craving. Pride always wins with me. “Fuck you.”
The hard smack he delivers to my clit has my body bucking. Pain ... then pleasure. “Try again.”
I can’t take another one of those. I just can’t. “Please.”
“Good girl.” He smacks me again for good measure, just to show he can.
I hate him.
He nips me with his lips and I jolt. His chuckle rumbles through me, and he licks my clit again, his tongue rough, forcing me back up again.
Even as I climb, I plot his murder. Gun? Knife? I want to throw him off a cliff. Yeah. That’s the plan. We’ll go hiking, perhaps to talk about the case, and I’ll just shove him right over.
Then I forget all about committing a homicide, because those fingers and his way too hot and talented mouth find a rhythm that has me bucking against him.
Just as I’m about to explode, he pauses, releases me, and slaps my clit with the heel of his palm. Once and then again. The orgasm starts to take me, and his mouth sucks me in again, his tongue working me like a master.
I grab a pillow and shove it over my face, my body gyrating so hard the headboard protests. Molten lava pours through me, and I try to muffle my screams as the orgasm rips electricity through me with a fine edge of pleasure that can’t be real. It’s wild and dangerous, and it’s owning me.
Then the waves hit, and I’m drowning in them, riding out the storm.
With a pathetic whimper I hope he doesn’t hear, I come down, throwing the pillow off my face. I’m sweaty and trembling, and he’s still between my legs. I fight the urge to slap his head, because I can’t take another hit to my clit.
With a pleased murmur, he kisses my clit and then looks up. His gaze is raw and intent. All male. With a promise in there, or maybe a threat. “Say thank you, Rosalie.”
I gulp. Not a bit of me wants to give in. Yet his teeth are right there, as is his hand. “Thank you,” I say weakly.
He kisses my bare mound again and then stands.
Finally, I clap my thighs together and push away from the bed, standing on very shaky legs. “That will never happen again.”
His smile lacks humor. “Watch yourself.”
