“You tried to run,” he said, voice thick with dangerous delight. “So I get to catch you.”
He dragged a hand through my damp hair, tugging back enough to steal a gasp from my throat. His jaw clenched at the sound and he dipped his head, sinking his teeth into my shoulder until he drew blood. I cried out, trying to ignore the way my pussy muscles spasmed.
“And I’ll have you begging me to fuck you every single time,” he growled, licking the wound.
I winced, clenching my fists. “You made me bleed. Again.”
“I like the taste of your blood. So fucking sweet.” He chuckled, tracing the bite mark with his tongue.
“It’s going to scar,” I hissed.
“Perfect.” His lips skimmed my cheek. “I like to mark things that belong to me.”
Before I could respond, he bent and swept me into his arms as if I weighed nothing. Not waiting for my response, he carried me with ease, one arm under my thighs, one under my back.
I grabbed his shoulders automatically, more out of instinct than desire yet the moment my fingers curled against his skin, he exhaled through his teeth.
“Careful,” he warned. “Touching me equates consent in my world.”
“Put me down.”
“No.” He carried me through the hallway, ignoring my struggle, the pace of his breath tight, controlled, effortless.
Upstairs, he entered the bedroom and headed for the bathroom, nudging the door with his foot. He stepped inside and put me down on my feet, his warm body pressing my back against the cool tiles.
“You should be fucked hard for your disobedience.” He braced his hands on either side of my head.
“I’ll run every time,” I retaliated.
“Good.” He leaned away and the shower roared to life. “Then I get to catch you every time and fuck you like the first time. Hard, raw and fucking perfection.” He smirked, reaching for the hem of my shirt.
“Don’t–” I caught his wrist, not sure what I was trying to prove.
He leaned in, eyes dark and hungry. “Don’t what? Touch you? Take you? Remind you why you couldn’t look me in the eye at breakfast?”
A shiver ripped through me. “Enough,” I squeaked instead of the demand I intended.
“Such bravery, but you’re trembling.” The tip of his tongue played with that lip ring. “What scares you more? The knowledge you hate me or want me?”
Annoyed, I squeezed my eyes shut and felt his fingers drift up my arms, a lover’s caress. As if.
“Say you want me and I’ll let you go.”
My eyes flew open, glaring at him. “Do you get a kick out of playing with people?”
“No.” He winked. “Just you.” I rolled my eyes and he chuckled. “If you don’t say it, it means you want to stay here. With me.”
“Oh my God, that’s…that’s…I give up,” I groaned, exasperated.
“Inside,” he commanded. I hesitated. His gaze dared me. When I didn’t move fast enough, his hand wrapped around my throat. “Ishika,” a drug-induced whisper. My knees nearly buckled.
I stepped inside.
forty-four
. . .
Ishika– 32 years old
