The praise lands harder than it should, forcing another moan out of me as he squeezes my inner thigh just inches from my pussy. He parts my legs, moving closer and closer to where I want him. His palm cups the softness of my inner thigh, then he slowly drags his thumb along the crease of my leg.
“Roman.” There’s no resistance to my tone. I want him so goddamn badly.
His fingers trace higher, skimming the edge of my folds. I’m slick even with the water of the tub, and I know he feels it. Roman groans against my neck, teeth grazing my skin as his middle finger dips in, slow and sure.
“Fuck, you’re soaked for me,” he says, his breath hot on my skin. He circles my clit with the pad of his thumb. Lightly at first, a graze so gentle and teasing it drives me insane. My hips buck involuntarily.
His touch becomes firmer, more insistent, his finger curling inside just right. The feeling is exquisite, a burn that blooms into bliss. My walls clench around him, my fingernails digging into his shoulders.
He slips a second finger into me without warning, stretching me even further.
“Oh… Oh my god…”
He kisses me along the slope of my neck as he builds a rhythm with his fingers. His thumb never quits the relentless swirl around my clit, causing sparks to appear in my vision. I begin rocking against his hand, chasing the pressure, my breastsheaving. He takes hold of one of my tits, squeezing my nipple and adding another layer of pleasure. He owns me with his touch, drawing out gasps and whimpers.
His voice is low and lethal as he says, “Let go, Amalie. I’ve got you.”
The command, the tone of his voice, is all it takes to unravel me. Pressure builds, white-hot and delicious. It coils tighter with each thrust of his fingers, each drag of his thumb against my clit. My thighs tremble and clamp around his wrist, but he doesn’t let go. He drives deeper, hitting the perfect spot every time.
I come, crying out, the sound raw and broken, echoing off the walls. The wave crashes, the orgasm ripping through me, fierce and shattering. My walls flutter around him in greedy little pulses. He doesn’t stop, milking me for every ounce of pleasure I have, his mouth capturing my moans in another deep kiss.
When it’s over, I sag against him like I’m boneless, my forehead resting against his shoulder. His fingers ease free, trailing up my spine in a touch that feels… tender?
“Beautiful.” He says the word less like a compliment and more like a statement of fact. I almost believe it.
But then the haze lifts, and the moment it does, the temperature in me decreases as surely as if the water had turned to ice.
What the hell did I just do?
I break free from him so fast I nearly slip on the edge of the tub. My body feels loose, oversensitive, every nerve singing, my legs like Jell-O. I grab the nearest towel and wrap it around my body like its armor. I scoop up my clothes and press them against my still-wet body.
“I have to go.” I blurt the words out, not waiting for a response as I hurry out of the room.
I don’t look back.
I bolt down the hallway, bare feet slapping against the cool marble. My breath comes in sharp, panicked bursts. The mansion feels endless, the hallways too long, the shadows too dark. Once I’m at my door, I fumble with the handle, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop my clothes and the towel.
I practically trip over the threshold, slam the door shut, and lock it. I slide down against the wood, pressing my forehead to my knees. I’m still shaking. And still turned on.
What. The. Hell. Just. Happened!
My body’s still humming, my skin still sensitive, my pulse racing like I just ran a marathon. Part of me wants to laugh like a madwoman. Another part of me wants to cry.
And a much more dangerous part of me wants to go right back.
I hug my legs tighter.
That can’t happen again. No way.
So why, even as I tell myself that, am I aching for more?
CHAPTER 7
AMALIE
Morning light spills into the breakfast room in soft, golden sheets. Everything looks domestic. Even a little harmless.
A lie. A pretty lie, but a lie, nonetheless.
