Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
I can’t think, can’t feel, can only taste her as she devours me, my teeth clacking against hers as she curls her hands into my hair and clutches at my scalp.
I lose time. I lose sense. I cup both her breasts and squeeze, groaning into her mouth.
When she finally pulls away, we’re both panting.
I let my hands rest on her waist. She’s trembling. Or maybe I am.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” I warn her.
She moves off me then. Unclasps her bra and lets her breasts—God, I bet those nipples taste like caramel—fall against her chest.
This is wrong. She’s my prisoner. I’m supposed to rough her up, for God’s sake. But all I can think about is getting into her tight little cunt.
She stands there, topless, chin up as if she’s the one with the power. It’s fucking intoxicating. Part of me wants to crush her, bend her over the cot and take what I want, but that’s not how she plays and I know it. She wants to be seen. She wants me to watch.
Her hands go to the button of her jeans. She hesitates, just a heartbeat, like she wants me to beg. My thighs tense beneath the weight of what’s coming. She undoes the button, the zipper. Slides them down. Red panties, a flash of hip bones, a scar, maybe from a childhood accident.
I reach for her.
She moves away, winking. Actually winking!
She’s smaller than I am, captive in this cell, but right now, she owns the space.
Or she thinks she does.
Fuck it.
I rise, stalk toward her, grab her and turn her around so her back is to me. I grind my hard cock into the small of her back. “You think you can tease me, querida? You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
She turns in my arms to face me. “Maybe you don’t know who you’re dealing with…querido.”
I groan and pin her wrists behind her. She tries to slip free, quicker than I expect, forcing me to squeeze tighter.
Her eyes flare up at me like gasoline in flame. She’s not scared. Whatever else she is, she’s not scared.
“Go ahead,” she says, chin tilted, “rough me up.”
I turn her again, force her hands against the wall. “You’re pushing me,” I whisper in her ear. “Don’t push me, querida.”
Then I rip off her red panties, free my aching cock, and thrust into her.
She gasps, and the sound is half a challenge, half a laugh. I fist my hand in her hair and fuck her hard, not because I want to hurt her but because I want her to know exactly where she stands. I don’t care if Zabala hears us. Or Adriana. Or even Diego fucking Vega himself.
She stays braced, grasping the wall. Her ass is small in my grip and I bruise her, just to feel her muscles clench in answer. When she comes, it’s sudden and violent.
“Fuck, yes!” she gasps.
Then she laughs again, and that’s what undoes me. That sound, so reckless and alive despite her circumstances. I finish with a shudder and stay inside her, my muscles contracting, my blood boiling, my brain melting.
When I finally regain my senses, I pull back.
She turns.
Gives me a slight smile.
I get it. This was transactional for her. She thinks she has some power over me.
I can’t bring myself to give a damn.
In fact, in this moment, all I care about is this beautiful and perfect woman.
17
ROBIN
I don’t move right away.
I just stand there. Breathing. Trying to understand what just happened and failing completely.
He zips up his jeans and looks at me smugly. Like he belongs there. And that’s the part I can’t wrap my head around.
Because this was supposed to be business. A calculated move. A way to buy time. To delay what he was going to do to me.
And it worked.
But it didn’t feel like that.
Not really.
I look up at the cracked ceiling. I shouldn’t feel this comfortable. I shouldn’t feel anything but fear and anger and the sharp awareness that I’m still trapped.
But instead, a quiet ease settles into my bones.
Familiar.
That’s the word that comes to me.
Familiar. Like I’ve done this before. Like I’ve known him longer than a handful of hours in a locked cell.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’ve had relationships. Real ones. Long-term boyfriends. Men I dated for years, including Falcon’s best friend, Leif Ramsey.
None of those ever felt this right.
Cruz walks toward me, hands me my shirt and jeans. I quickly put them on.
Then he does something I don’t expect. He sits down on the cot and pats the spot next to him. I sit.
For a while, neither of us says anything.
Finally, he speaks. “I never knew my father.” He’s staring up at the ceiling now, his expression distant. “My mother never told me who he was. And I stopped asking when I realized it didn’t matter.”