Page 176 of Damsel in Disguise

My cock throbs painfully behind the confinement of my pants, straining so tightly against the fabric that every pulse feels like its own form of torture.

Every instinct inside me demands the same thing—to take, to claim, to bury myself balls deep inside her until I forget where she ends and I begin.

She’s a masterpiece. A work of impossible perfection.

Despite how violently every urge in me is pulling at its leash, I still know how to keep control.

For now.

51. ADDICTION

alistair

My attention lands on the bottle sitting nearby.

I grab it, expecting some ordinary liquor, only to find a bottle of Domaine Leroy Musigny Grand Cru waiting for me instead.

A reminder of exactly who she is. A Keinston.

I uncork it and take a long drink straight from the bottle.

Ariella watches intently, her gaze tracking every movement of my throat as I swallow.

“You want some?”

She nods immediately, enthusiastic enough that my mouth curves.

“Open your mouth.”

Her lips part obediently.

I take another mouthful before leaning over her, and instead of handing her the bottle, I feed it to her directly from my mouth.

Ariella accepts it without hesitation, swallowing every drop before our mouths find each other again.

The kiss turns deep and hungry almost instantly.

Wine lingers between us, rich and expensive on our tongues. Something about the fact that we taste the same does dangerous things to my head. It’s more addictive than any drug.

When I finally pull back from her lips, a reckless idea takes hold. Tilting the bottle, I pour a slow stream over her chest.

The dark liquid slides across warm skin, tracing glistening paths down her body, but before it can travel any farther, my tongue follows.

“Alistair…” my name leaves her mouth like a plea, soft and breathless, undoing me.

A rough groan escapes my throat as I lick away every trace of wine from her skin.

I pour more as an excuse to keep tasting her.

The bottle tips again. My mouth follows the dark trail over her shoulder, along the graceful curve of her neck, across the swell of her chest, down the smooth plane of her stomach, and the slope of her hips before continuing lower.

Every place my tongue touches becomes another memory burned into my mind, another piece of her that feels impossibly mine in this moment.

My teeth leave a fresh bite mark before I move to the next spot to taste and claim.

She trembles and screams my name every time I leave a fresh mark behind. Her body reacts to each claim in a way that feeds ugly possessiveness inside me. Mine.

Mine to touch.