Gymnast?
I shift lower, kissing down her chest until my lips find the first lump, my tongue exploring the crease. Unsure if I like it; unsure if it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever licked or an affront to my masculinity. It’s weirdly hot and also distracting, my head flipping through possible scenarios to explain it—gymnast, dancer, boxer (fuck, I hope not), certainly anathlete.
When her hips shift with discomfort, I move down her stomach. Going slow—impossibly slow. I trail a path to her waistline, blow a breath onto her icy skin. She shivers.
Her obedience stops when I go to shimmy her pants down her rigid legs. She grips both my hands and clambers from beneath me, working her way to sitting. When I pull the blanket off, she shakes her head. “No.No.” She shoves me away while yanking her legs up. “This is crazy. You people are crazy!” she yells at Thorne. “I’m not doing this.”
“Luna…” I frown. Think. Work through the right, calming words to say. But she isn’t naive enough for a typical line, or foranyline that comes to mind. There’s no lie that would soothe her. Truth would only deepen the ache.
You’re a sex slave. You’ve got three weeks to convince these lunatics that you’re going to play nice. Or you’ll die.
Your call. Survive or don’t.
The thing everyone learns but nobody admits is that honesty is often cruel.
Thorne finally,finallytakes the cue to bring me the handcuffs I told him to tuck into his pocket. He tosses them on the bed next to me—no plans to take the initiative—while Luna shakes her head and crawls away.
“I’m sorry, love,” I say, grabbing her by her hips and dragging her to the middle of the bed.
“No,stop. Please stop.”
“It’s okay. You’re okay,” I say as I pin her back to the mattress with my knee while forcing her hands above her head. One hand slips from my grasp. Her nails find my face, the sharp dagger of her middle finger slashing my cheekbone, the loose skin beneath my eye pulling. The sting comes before hot blood bubbles to the surface, and I jerk my head away while swallowing a curse.
I shift to straddle her chest and catch her wrist while she kicks, bucks, jerks her arms, trying desperately to free herself from my grasp. If she had been holding back her fighting spirit, it’s just broken free.
“You’re okay, Luna,” I repeat while blindly fumbling for the handcuffs. I don’t take my eyes off her hands, weapons I have secured in a bruising grip but still don’t trust. When I find the cuffs, I quickly secure both her wrists to the headboard.
I do my best to take on a look of pity, of regret, of total remorse, but I don’t know that I manage.
She alerts the whole damn building with a blood-curdling scream—fucking disastrous. I was ordered to keep her quiet, but if I cover her mouth too soon, my first impression is shot.
“Shut her up!” Thorne demands,thank fuck.
I cover her mouth and gently shush her while she sobs into my palm, her eyes wide and pleading—for the moment. It’s an insincere white flag; a lie; sharp instincts shifting strategy now that the battle has been lost.
Three weeks is so little time to tame a fighter.
“You’re gonna be fine, love,” I say, the urge to kiss her forehead strong. But I refrain. It’s too muchme. Not enough my character.
Her cries and begging into my palm shorten, her breaths gradually slowing. When she finally quiets, I count to ten. Then, slowly, carefully, I retreat, waiting to slap my hand back as soon as she screams.
She snaps her head away and rattles the handcuffs, but her fight is dim. She’s making the familiar shift from panic to sorrow. Defeat—yet to make me feel victorious. In a week, the sorrow will lift, and we’ll both feel better.
I move down her body once again and don’t bother with the peppered kisses, the formality no longer seeming appropriate. I peel her jeans off before tucking both hands beneath her lacy, black panties. Her ass digs into the mattress in an attempt to stop me from pulling them off, but with a few jerks, they slip down her thighs—two more and they’re free of her ankles.
Luna gasps as I spread her open with a firm touch. She uselessly tries to clench her legs, swings her foot at my arms as if I’ve forgotten her strength; as if I’d make that mistake again.
Little whines slip past her lips, but they’re at least quieter than her screams. I’m too distracted to pretend to care about the noise. In fact, I’m glad she’s facing away because the pity slips right off my face.
For seconds, I just stare at the white patch of hair surrounding the pink of her pussy, snowy curls ornamenting ribbed, tender flesh. White hair. Like she’s a thousand years old. It’s strange. Sexy. Wrong.
My mind stumbles, trips—ridiculousbecause pussy is pussy, but… I don’t know. For several moments, I’m caught off guard.
My cock jumps and mercifully knocks me back into orbit. Saliva coats the lining of my mouth because once again, I’m Pavlov’s dog.
Turning my head, I cough into my shoulder to clear the lust from my throat. I breathe deeper, air warming as it passes over my heated lips. Then dip my head to kiss the girl’s clit.
She gasps, then squirms, then cries.
