Page 77 of Ricochet

He spun me around to face him, setting my ass up onto the cold tiles. His teeth grazed my earlobe, fingers wrapped around my throat, but not tight, just enough to say, you belong to me.

And, God, I did. The bastard owned me, which was saying something because nobody owned me. Not anymore.

Those eyes of his overpowered everything—my willpower, my patience, my sanity. Dark. Mysterious. Dangerous. They did things to the body, silent little commands, assuring that, one way or another, I was fucked.

I stared into his crisp blue irises, so bright they appeared to be powered by tiny electrical storms of lightning. An icy chill climbed my spine. He was the only one who could take me to a place where no one else could. A place where I was free. My salvation rested in the hands of a cold-blooded killer.

The tension that’d been building between us for days had finally pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. A quiver of anticipation ran through my body as I waited, my muscles burning, heart hammering a steady cadence of excitement inside my chest.

I wanted the man before me. A beautiful, dangerous and mysterious man, who reduced me to nothing more than a giddy schoolgirl under the weight of his intense stare. I wanted to get lost in those eyes, drown inside of them, never to surface again. Forget about my world, my past.

“I’m tired of always having to be in a state of constant control. Control of myself. What I say. My actions, for fear that what I do or say will result in punishment.” My words arrived fast, tumbling from my mouth before I had the chance to stop them. “I want to lose control.” I leaned forward, against the pressure at my neck that eventually fell away, and brushed my open mouth against his throat, trembling at the sensation of being so close to heaven I could almost touch it. “Help me. I want to lose myself with you, Nick.”

Pulling back, I studied him, the carved-out perfect cheekbones, a chiseled jaw that ticced as he stared back, and the scruff that’d set my world on fire mere minutes ago. His pupils seemed dilated, eyes bigger, wider. Excited.

Like a predator’s.

Grabbing my left ankle, he lifted my leg, the awkward contortion forcing me to scoot back when he set my foot flat on the countertop. At his grip of my right ankle, I raised my other foot atop the counter. I sat completely spread before him, exposed, and when his gaze fell from mine, my stomach clenched. The wetness probably glistened like a goddamn disco ball in front of his eyes.

“Touch yourself, Aubree.”

His demeanor had changed from the kitchen. Before he’d seemed rushed, uncontrolled, hungry. He was suddenly calm, much more calculated in his movements.

The rebel inside me wanted to lash out, tell him to fuck off, because no one told me what to do anymore. His command was different to Michael’s, though—his voice holding a fascination that lacked the sadistic undercurrent of unexpected pain.

Touching myself in front of a man was nothing new, but a tickle in my stomach brought forth the realization that Nick made me nervous, like I didn’t want to disappoint him. He’d brought new sensations to the fore, and I desperately wanted more, was willing to become a slave to it, so I slid my finger over my swollen mound and confirmed what I already suspected as I teased the tiny knot there. Soaking wet.

His eyes remained fixed on me, while I skimmed my fingers up and down my cleft, and he grabbed hold of his undeniably proud cock, stroking himself as he watched me. Fucking hell, the sight of him could make a woman do the unthinkable, like come on demand, with his dark, menacing tattoos, the angry shift of his jaw and the controlled glide of his hand along his shaft that had his biceps flexing with each pull. He wasn’t doing it to get himself off. It was probably written all over my face—I wanted him. I wanted that beautiful cock inside of me, and the man was teasing me with it.

Well, two could play at that game.

I closed my eyes, tilting my head back against the mirror, and plunging two fingers inside myself, I moaned. “You do things to me, Nick. Things I’ve never felt before.” A heavy basting of lust dripped from every word, and when I fondled my nipple, his grunt had me opening my eyes and brought a smile to my face.

Tongue raking across his teeth, he cupped my jaw, looking down at me with intensity, so much intensity. His chest expanded and contracted, nostrils flaring with each heavy breath. His hand skated down my stomach, across my clit, and I jerked as his finger danced along my seam. He gripped my throat again with the other hand, not hard or violent, almost in reverence.

At the nudge of my palm, I slid my fingers from between my thighs, tensing, as his curled around my wrist and lifted my hand to his face. His gaze flicked to my captured fingers then back to me, before he inserted them into his mouth, and goddamn, my pussy twitched, as he licked them clean.

The moment with him felt incredibly erotic, intimate, as if we’d stripped ourselves out of skin and connected on a level I’d never reached with anyone before him.

Even though his eyes appeared feral and capable of violence, I trusted him. I wanted him in all his dangerous potential. Craved the dark glint in his eyes that warned he could fuck me in more ways than one.

He leaned forward, the skimming of his teeth along the shell of my ear sending a jolt of anticipation running through my body. “I need this, Aubree. Give this to me.” His deep voice tickled my ear, more commanding than before, but not in a way that put me on edge. Moving his hand to my nape, his kiss landed at the base of my throat.

I wanted his dominance, craved his demands. I didn’t have the best track record with men, but something inside of me told me he was different. Just as much a killer as any I’d been with before, but different. Passionate. “Take me.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Confusion? Fear?

“Nick?” I stroked a hand down his cheek, and he blinked, pupils shrinking, revealing more of the blue.

He yanked me to the edge of the sink, wrapped my legs around his hips, and slid inside me, jackhammering, violent, needy. He filled me completely, so deep, I had to lift my ass to keep him from plowing through me. A throaty, almost animalistic sound ripped from my chest as, like animals, we fucked. His fingers laced through my hair, alternating between squeezing and releasing. My breasts bounced with each hard slam into my body, not cruel or mean, but ravenous. Urgent, as if the world might come crashing in on us at any second, and all we had was right then.

Without so much as a flinch of warning, he pulled out of me, and my body went cold, desperate to be filled again, neither of us having reached climax.

Sliding his hands under my ass, he lifted me off the sink, carried me to the bed, and pushed inside of me once more. “Aubree.” His husky voice gushed like a dark, wicked chocolate inside my mind. “Can’t get enough of you. You’ve got my head so fucked up right now.”

I loved that I made him that way. As he pounded into me, I felt unbreakable, fluid and relaxed. Beautiful, too. Like a blind man watching the sun rise for the first time, he never took his eyes off me. From the bliss of never wanting it to end, to the pain of needing climax, he seemed to read my expressions like an opened book, and shifted with them, keeping me on edge, keeping himself from release. His abrupt changes—the slow, easy glides, to spurts of railing into me so deep, he damn near touched my womb, the pull of my hair and gentle strokes along my face—told me chaos swirled inside his body. As if he yearned for something darker, but fought to rein it in. I’d seen it in the bathroom, a flicker of confusion before he took me hard and fast. The man was an enigma. A torn mind. One I yearned to lose myself in.

“Please,” I begged, clawing at the edge of pure ecstasy, a steady vibration running through my muscles, so desperate for release, I could’ve cried. What felt like an hour must’ve passed. “Oh, God please.”