Desperate crimes, p.6
Desperate Crimes, page 6
part #1 of Mergers & Acquisitions Series
Nothing.
But his voice?
That dark, distorted, possessive voice is still in my head like a drug.
“Rest now. I’ll be back.”
And God help me, some twisted part of me really hopes he meant it.
Chapter Eleven-Nico Jr
Holy. Fuck.
There she is. Finally.
My breath catches as she steps out of the bathroom, barefoot and radiant, wrapped in my silk robe like it’s always belonged to her.
I knew it would suit her.
Knew the blush-pink would glow against her skin, that the hem would kiss her thighs just right, that the belt would cinch at her waist like a lover’s grip.
But nothing—nothing—prepared me for the sight of her wearing it.
Soft and sleepy, hair tousled from her fingers, curves outlined in satin and suggestion.
And beneath it?
I know what she’s wearing. Lace. Pale pink. Barely there. I chose it for her. Hung it in the bathroom like a whisper she could choose to ignore—but didn’t.
My cock throbs against my zipper.
I clench my jaw. Try to be still. Try to breathe.
But I can’t fight this anymore.
She’s in my bed. In my house. In my world.
She’s not just close.
She’s ready.
I reach up and remove my piercings—each ring, each stud, every bit of steel I wear like armor.
One by one, they come off.
The click of metal is steady. Controlled.
Then I strip off my shirt, slowly and silently, my inked-up muscles flexing in the glow of the monitors.
I don’t take off my pants.
Not yet.
The cameras follow her as she climbs onto the bed and settles against the pillows.
Innocent. Curious. Wanting.
She doesn't even know how much she’s giving away.
And now?
Now it’s time.
I press the button.
The lights in her room fade to black, seamlessly and smooth.
Darkness swallows her. And me.
I move.
The hallway is silent as I step barefoot across the polished floors, my jeans hanging low on my hips.
Every footfall echoes through me like a war drum.
My pulse pounds.
My blood sings.
This moment has been years in the making.
When I open the bedroom door, I don’t speak. I don’t breathe. I let the darkness stretch a beat longer—enough to feel her tension spike.
I move through the room like a shadow.
I know exactly where to step so she won’t hear me until I want her to. I savor the silence—the stretch of her waiting.
Then she feels it.
Feels my presence.
Fortifies my belief that the two of us are soulmates.
Next, Leanna’s soft voice whispers to me in the darkness.
“Hello?”
Fuck.
My cock jumps, twitching hard behind my zipper all because she’s here, talking to me—softly, tentatively.
Is she afraid? I don’t think so.
Uncertain? Maybe.
Leanna has grit. She’s brave. Besides, I’m not trying to scare her.
I’m trying to woo her.
In my own slightly psychotic fashion.
Because I can’t date this woman.
This isn’t a swipe right to fuck deal, either.
I’m not like regular guys. I’m not even just a Viper. I’m their fucking Prince.
So, when I say I want Leanna Volkov.
I don’t just mean for the night.
I mean forever.
I want to keep her. To claim her. To own her.
“Hello?” she repeats, louder now.
One single word and I’m undone.
I step closer, slowly.
My voice comes low, rough, thick with hunger.
No more modulator.
Just me. Cloaked in the darkness I belong to.
“Look at you,” I say, my tone dark, voice deep like smoke and sin and vows I mean to keep. “In my bed. Dressed in silk and lace.”
She stills.
I hear the faint hitch in her breath.
Anticipatory desire slithers through my veins.
Like a serpent uncoiling from its hiding place—slow, deliberate, ancient.
It wraps around my spine, coils in my belly, flicks its tongue behind my ribs.
Hot and low and dangerous.
“Have you been waiting for me, Princess?”
She gasps.
God, that sound.
It rushes straight to my cock, thickens the air between us, makes my blood roar in my ears.
She’s trying to steady herself, I can feel it—taste it in the way her breath stalls.
“Who are you?” she whispers.
Voice breathy, unsure.
And, fuck me, it’s adorable that she thinks she’s the one asking the questions.
I smirk.
“Nuh uh,” I say, low and even. I take a step closer, letting the tension stretch like wire between us. “That’s not the question I asked.”
Her breath hitches again. She’s close to unraveling, and I haven’t even touched her.
Not yet.
“Now, tell me,” I murmur. “How many boys pretending to be men have you let taste you?”
She flinches. Doesn’t answer.
So I press harder.
“How many have you kissed, Leanna?”
“You know my name.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer.
I just press on.
“How many have tried to touch you? How many left you wanting?”
She tries to speak. To argue.
“W-what? How could you possibly—”
I cut her off with a slow, dark chuckle. Not cruel. Just knowing.
“I know, Princess. I always know.”
Another step. I'm near the edge of the bed now, close enough to hear the sheets whisper as she shifts.
Her breathing is shallow. Her scent wraps around me—sweet, feminine, a little anxious. Aroused.
“You never let them have you,” I say. My voice is softer now, more intimate.
“You don’t know that.”
“You can’t lie to me,” I say.
And she stays silent for a beat.
So I keep going.
“You. Never. Let. Them. Have. You. Did you, Princess? Nah. You pulled away. Smiled, but kept your distance. Teased. Tempted. But when it came time to give anything real?”
I lean in, just a breath from her cheek. I don’t touch her. I don’t have to.
“You never let them touch what you knew was always mine.”
I feel her body react.
Every part of her is humming, tight with confusion and something she doesn’t want to name yet.
“You’re crazy,” she whispers.
Her voice trembles. Not with fear. With need.
I grin in the dark.
“For you? You have no fucking idea? And if you think that bothers me?” I murmur. “It doesn’t. So, call me what you want. But deep down? You know what you want to call me.”
“Bastard? Asshole?”
I grin wider.
“Nah. Just call me yours, Princess.”
Chapter Twelve-Nico Jr
She sucks in a shaky breath, then I press my lips to her earlobe.
I whisper, “This was always going to happen.”
Her entire body is trembling, shaking now.
I imagine her lips parted, her eyes wide, trying to see me through the dark but unable to.
“Why me?” she asks. “Why like this?”
She doesn’t understand yet.
But she will.
I let my voice fall, low and reverent.
“Because you were meant to be mine. And deep down you know it, too.”
I don’t touch her.
I don’t kiss her.
Not yet.
But I could.
The space between us is alive. Burning.
And she’s already starting to surrender.
Not with her words.
Not yet.
But with every trembling breath, she’s getting closer.
To me.
To the truth.
And soon?
She’ll never want to leave.
But I can't hold back anymore.
I came in here planning to wait. To watch. To speak to her in shadows, let the fear simmer just a little longer. Let the idea of me take root and twist inside her.
But the second I hear her body shifting on my bed like her skin is suddenly too tight, like she is already aching for answers—I know. It’s gonna happen right now.
My control snaps like a fraying wire.
I move without thought.
My hand reaches out in the dark, and the second my fingertips brush her ankle—skin to skin—I swear the air crackles.
She gasps.
Freezes.
But doesn’t pull away.
Her leg is bare beneath the silk robe, and I slide my fingers higher.
Slowly. Reverently.
Over the curve of her calf, the dip of her knee, the soft swell of her thigh.
Fuck.
She’s warm. Smooth. Real.
My pulse is a hammer in my throat.
“You’re trembling,” I murmur, voice like smoke.
I hear her swallow. Feel her breath falter.
“Because I’m scared,” she whispers.
Liar.
She’s turned on. Curious. Scared too, sure—but that’s not what’s making her thighs tense as my hand slides higher, stopping just beneath the hem of her robe.
“No,” I say, brushing my knuckles over the edge of lace underneath. “You’re not scared. Not of me.”
I circle my fingertips just beneath the hem, but I don’t go any higher just yet.
This is torturing us both, trust me.
“You’ve just been waiting so long, haven’t you? Poor little Princess.”
She sucks in a breath, and I know I’ve nailed it.
Then I shift my position. My other hand joins the first, fingers sliding along her waist, dipping over her hip, all the way to her thigh.
She sucks in a sharp breath. And I move both hands, slipping them under the edge of the robe.
I can almost see her ribs expand with every breath she takes now.
Fast. Shallow. Desperate.
She’s not stopping me.
Not even close.
“Say it,” I lean down and murmur right against her ear.
My lips barely graze her skin. And I know my cock is leaking inside my boxers.
“Tell me you’ve thought about this. About me.”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
A beat.
“You know, Princess. You’ve always known.”
And another.
“I—I thought you were never coming for me. That you were just gonna let me go, like a dream or a wish that never comes true,” she breathes.
And fuck, that’s it.
That’s the match against the gasoline.
My mouth crashes to her neck, pressing a kiss to the curve where her pulse races beneath skin.
She moans. Her head tips back instinctively and perfect.
I nip. Not hard. Just enough to taste her. To claim her.
Her hands search for me, clutching at my shoulders, then grasping the front of my pants.
“Open them, Princess. Show me what you want.”
She whimpers.
Actually fucking whimpers.
Her fingers tremble against the button like she doesn’t know whether to push me away or pull me closer.
“I told you,” I growl against her throat. “You were always mine.”
And now?
She’s finally starting to believe it.
Chapter Thirteen-Leanna
I’m so wet.
Soaking.
His hands haven’t even touched me where I need them, but my thighs are already slick with arousal.
The silk of the robe clings to my skin, sliding open at my hips, exposing me.
And when his big hands finally settle on my thighs—my bare thighs—I swear I stop breathing.
God, they’re huge. Rough. Strong. They grip like they’ve done it before, like they own me already.
This is what I’ve always wanted.
The heat. The pressure. The weight of a man who doesn’t ask—who just takes.
I can’t see a thing.
The room is drenched in darkness—warm, heavy, and complete—but I feel him.
His presence is unmistakable.
Every breath, every shift of muscle and fabric, broadcasts his hunger like heat rolling off a fire.
He’s kneeling now.
I sense the weight of him settle between my knees, the mattress dipping just slightly under his mass.
I hold still, instinctively keeping my legs together, every nerve in my body alive with tension.
Not resisting, exactly. More like waiting.
Like my body knows something monumental is about to happen.
Then I feel it.
His fingertips.
They slide up slowly, deliberately, skimming the insides of my thighs. Not rushed.
Not greedy. More like, worshipful.
Like he’s savoring every inch of skin, every breathless twitch I try to control.
A strangled sound escapes him—half groan, half sigh—when his hands reach the plush, sensitive skin near the top of my thighs.
His fingers flex. His breath catches.
“You’re so fucking soft,” he rasps, voice like gravel over silk. “I’ve dreamed about this. About you.”
And then—oh fuck yes please.
He presses my legs apart.
Firm, unyielding pressure, not rough but final, like a door being opened with a key only he has ever held.
Like he has every right.
And I let him.
Because he does.
To my utter shame, I want him.
I want all of it.
The darkness. The danger. The utter loss of control.
Him. Mostly, I want him.
I feel my arousal drip onto the sheets beneath me, shameless and hot.
He growls softly at the feel—or maybe even the scent—of it, and his fingers trail higher, teasing the crease where thigh meets heat.
“Fuck, Princess,” he breathes. “You’re already soaked for me.”
A flush burns its way across my chest, my face, everywhere.
But I don’t pull away.
I tilt my hips forward instead, offering more.
This is wrong.
This is insane.
But it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed about late at night, between the pages of forbidden books and under the hush of velvet fantasies.
His touch becomes bolder.
Fingers gliding through slick folds, teasing my clit in featherlight strokes that make my legs tremble.
My hands fist the sheets. My head falls back. I moan.
“Please,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
His laugh is low. Possessive. Devastating.
“Please what, Princess?”
His voice is low, a growl laced with command, and it vibrates through me, deeper than sound, deeper than reason.
My pride should scream at me to stop.
To shut up. To deny him this.
But it shrinks—folds up like paper under the weight of the need clawing through me.
I swallow hard, lips trembling.
“Touch me,” I breathe, barely able to say it. “Don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t.
His fingers move with maddening precision. One slides inside me—slow, smooth, deliberate.
The stretch is perfect.
Not too much, not too little.
Just enough to make my walls flutter around him, greedy and shocked.
He doesn’t thrust. Not yet.
He holds.
Like he’s giving me a second to feel what it means to be touched by him.
To feel possession.
Not violence.
Not gentleness.
Worship.
“You touch yourself at night, Princess?” he asks, voice rasping against my ear. It’s not cruel.
It’s intimate. Hungry.
I flinch, caught.
My throat closes, but I nod. I can’t lie.
“I-I do,” I whisper.
“You make yourself come with your fingers?”
My body clenches around him, my face burning.
The honesty is terrifying. Liberating.
“S-sometimes. But sometimes I use toys,” I admit, voice barely audible.
He groans. Deep. Rough. Possessive.
“Toys,” he repeats, his free hand sliding up to cradle my jaw, keeping me still in the dark.
He hasn’t kissed me yet. And I want him to. I want to see him when he does.
“Do you rub them on your clit?”
As he says the words, his thumb brushes my sensitive bud—just once.
My hips jerk. A cry escapes me.
I nod frantically, unable to speak.
His breath hitches. Then hardens.
“Or do you put them in here?” he growls, his voice jagged as he slides another finger inside me, pushing in beside the first.
The stretch makes me gasp.
My pussy clenches down hard, needing it—needing more.
I’m soaked. I can hear how wet I am. So can he.
He moves slowly, curling his fingers just right, dragging them against the spot that makes my toes curl and my stomach drop.
No one’s ever done this.
No one’s ever touched me like this.
I moan—soft and broken—and my hips rock into his hand on instinct, searching for friction, chasing something wild and endless building deep in my core.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Fuck, look at you. Rocking your greedy little cunt on my fingers like you were made for it.”
My head tips back, lips parted, panting.
I don’t care anymore.
Not about who I am.
Not about who he is.
Not about the darkness, or how we got here.
All I know is that I need more.
And he’s the only one who’s ever known how to give it to me.
I can feel it building—fast.
Tight. Intense.
That first wave of pleasure, cresting like a storm.
But his voice?
That dark, distorted, possessive voice is still in my head like a drug.
“Rest now. I’ll be back.”
And God help me, some twisted part of me really hopes he meant it.
Chapter Eleven-Nico Jr
Holy. Fuck.
There she is. Finally.
My breath catches as she steps out of the bathroom, barefoot and radiant, wrapped in my silk robe like it’s always belonged to her.
I knew it would suit her.
Knew the blush-pink would glow against her skin, that the hem would kiss her thighs just right, that the belt would cinch at her waist like a lover’s grip.
But nothing—nothing—prepared me for the sight of her wearing it.
Soft and sleepy, hair tousled from her fingers, curves outlined in satin and suggestion.
And beneath it?
I know what she’s wearing. Lace. Pale pink. Barely there. I chose it for her. Hung it in the bathroom like a whisper she could choose to ignore—but didn’t.
My cock throbs against my zipper.
I clench my jaw. Try to be still. Try to breathe.
But I can’t fight this anymore.
She’s in my bed. In my house. In my world.
She’s not just close.
She’s ready.
I reach up and remove my piercings—each ring, each stud, every bit of steel I wear like armor.
One by one, they come off.
The click of metal is steady. Controlled.
Then I strip off my shirt, slowly and silently, my inked-up muscles flexing in the glow of the monitors.
I don’t take off my pants.
Not yet.
The cameras follow her as she climbs onto the bed and settles against the pillows.
Innocent. Curious. Wanting.
She doesn't even know how much she’s giving away.
And now?
Now it’s time.
I press the button.
The lights in her room fade to black, seamlessly and smooth.
Darkness swallows her. And me.
I move.
The hallway is silent as I step barefoot across the polished floors, my jeans hanging low on my hips.
Every footfall echoes through me like a war drum.
My pulse pounds.
My blood sings.
This moment has been years in the making.
When I open the bedroom door, I don’t speak. I don’t breathe. I let the darkness stretch a beat longer—enough to feel her tension spike.
I move through the room like a shadow.
I know exactly where to step so she won’t hear me until I want her to. I savor the silence—the stretch of her waiting.
Then she feels it.
Feels my presence.
Fortifies my belief that the two of us are soulmates.
Next, Leanna’s soft voice whispers to me in the darkness.
“Hello?”
Fuck.
My cock jumps, twitching hard behind my zipper all because she’s here, talking to me—softly, tentatively.
Is she afraid? I don’t think so.
Uncertain? Maybe.
Leanna has grit. She’s brave. Besides, I’m not trying to scare her.
I’m trying to woo her.
In my own slightly psychotic fashion.
Because I can’t date this woman.
This isn’t a swipe right to fuck deal, either.
I’m not like regular guys. I’m not even just a Viper. I’m their fucking Prince.
So, when I say I want Leanna Volkov.
I don’t just mean for the night.
I mean forever.
I want to keep her. To claim her. To own her.
“Hello?” she repeats, louder now.
One single word and I’m undone.
I step closer, slowly.
My voice comes low, rough, thick with hunger.
No more modulator.
Just me. Cloaked in the darkness I belong to.
“Look at you,” I say, my tone dark, voice deep like smoke and sin and vows I mean to keep. “In my bed. Dressed in silk and lace.”
She stills.
I hear the faint hitch in her breath.
Anticipatory desire slithers through my veins.
Like a serpent uncoiling from its hiding place—slow, deliberate, ancient.
It wraps around my spine, coils in my belly, flicks its tongue behind my ribs.
Hot and low and dangerous.
“Have you been waiting for me, Princess?”
She gasps.
God, that sound.
It rushes straight to my cock, thickens the air between us, makes my blood roar in my ears.
She’s trying to steady herself, I can feel it—taste it in the way her breath stalls.
“Who are you?” she whispers.
Voice breathy, unsure.
And, fuck me, it’s adorable that she thinks she’s the one asking the questions.
I smirk.
“Nuh uh,” I say, low and even. I take a step closer, letting the tension stretch like wire between us. “That’s not the question I asked.”
Her breath hitches again. She’s close to unraveling, and I haven’t even touched her.
Not yet.
“Now, tell me,” I murmur. “How many boys pretending to be men have you let taste you?”
She flinches. Doesn’t answer.
So I press harder.
“How many have you kissed, Leanna?”
“You know my name.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer.
I just press on.
“How many have tried to touch you? How many left you wanting?”
She tries to speak. To argue.
“W-what? How could you possibly—”
I cut her off with a slow, dark chuckle. Not cruel. Just knowing.
“I know, Princess. I always know.”
Another step. I'm near the edge of the bed now, close enough to hear the sheets whisper as she shifts.
Her breathing is shallow. Her scent wraps around me—sweet, feminine, a little anxious. Aroused.
“You never let them have you,” I say. My voice is softer now, more intimate.
“You don’t know that.”
“You can’t lie to me,” I say.
And she stays silent for a beat.
So I keep going.
“You. Never. Let. Them. Have. You. Did you, Princess? Nah. You pulled away. Smiled, but kept your distance. Teased. Tempted. But when it came time to give anything real?”
I lean in, just a breath from her cheek. I don’t touch her. I don’t have to.
“You never let them touch what you knew was always mine.”
I feel her body react.
Every part of her is humming, tight with confusion and something she doesn’t want to name yet.
“You’re crazy,” she whispers.
Her voice trembles. Not with fear. With need.
I grin in the dark.
“For you? You have no fucking idea? And if you think that bothers me?” I murmur. “It doesn’t. So, call me what you want. But deep down? You know what you want to call me.”
“Bastard? Asshole?”
I grin wider.
“Nah. Just call me yours, Princess.”
Chapter Twelve-Nico Jr
She sucks in a shaky breath, then I press my lips to her earlobe.
I whisper, “This was always going to happen.”
Her entire body is trembling, shaking now.
I imagine her lips parted, her eyes wide, trying to see me through the dark but unable to.
“Why me?” she asks. “Why like this?”
She doesn’t understand yet.
But she will.
I let my voice fall, low and reverent.
“Because you were meant to be mine. And deep down you know it, too.”
I don’t touch her.
I don’t kiss her.
Not yet.
But I could.
The space between us is alive. Burning.
And she’s already starting to surrender.
Not with her words.
Not yet.
But with every trembling breath, she’s getting closer.
To me.
To the truth.
And soon?
She’ll never want to leave.
But I can't hold back anymore.
I came in here planning to wait. To watch. To speak to her in shadows, let the fear simmer just a little longer. Let the idea of me take root and twist inside her.
But the second I hear her body shifting on my bed like her skin is suddenly too tight, like she is already aching for answers—I know. It’s gonna happen right now.
My control snaps like a fraying wire.
I move without thought.
My hand reaches out in the dark, and the second my fingertips brush her ankle—skin to skin—I swear the air crackles.
She gasps.
Freezes.
But doesn’t pull away.
Her leg is bare beneath the silk robe, and I slide my fingers higher.
Slowly. Reverently.
Over the curve of her calf, the dip of her knee, the soft swell of her thigh.
Fuck.
She’s warm. Smooth. Real.
My pulse is a hammer in my throat.
“You’re trembling,” I murmur, voice like smoke.
I hear her swallow. Feel her breath falter.
“Because I’m scared,” she whispers.
Liar.
She’s turned on. Curious. Scared too, sure—but that’s not what’s making her thighs tense as my hand slides higher, stopping just beneath the hem of her robe.
“No,” I say, brushing my knuckles over the edge of lace underneath. “You’re not scared. Not of me.”
I circle my fingertips just beneath the hem, but I don’t go any higher just yet.
This is torturing us both, trust me.
“You’ve just been waiting so long, haven’t you? Poor little Princess.”
She sucks in a breath, and I know I’ve nailed it.
Then I shift my position. My other hand joins the first, fingers sliding along her waist, dipping over her hip, all the way to her thigh.
She sucks in a sharp breath. And I move both hands, slipping them under the edge of the robe.
I can almost see her ribs expand with every breath she takes now.
Fast. Shallow. Desperate.
She’s not stopping me.
Not even close.
“Say it,” I lean down and murmur right against her ear.
My lips barely graze her skin. And I know my cock is leaking inside my boxers.
“Tell me you’ve thought about this. About me.”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
A beat.
“You know, Princess. You’ve always known.”
And another.
“I—I thought you were never coming for me. That you were just gonna let me go, like a dream or a wish that never comes true,” she breathes.
And fuck, that’s it.
That’s the match against the gasoline.
My mouth crashes to her neck, pressing a kiss to the curve where her pulse races beneath skin.
She moans. Her head tips back instinctively and perfect.
I nip. Not hard. Just enough to taste her. To claim her.
Her hands search for me, clutching at my shoulders, then grasping the front of my pants.
“Open them, Princess. Show me what you want.”
She whimpers.
Actually fucking whimpers.
Her fingers tremble against the button like she doesn’t know whether to push me away or pull me closer.
“I told you,” I growl against her throat. “You were always mine.”
And now?
She’s finally starting to believe it.
Chapter Thirteen-Leanna
I’m so wet.
Soaking.
His hands haven’t even touched me where I need them, but my thighs are already slick with arousal.
The silk of the robe clings to my skin, sliding open at my hips, exposing me.
And when his big hands finally settle on my thighs—my bare thighs—I swear I stop breathing.
God, they’re huge. Rough. Strong. They grip like they’ve done it before, like they own me already.
This is what I’ve always wanted.
The heat. The pressure. The weight of a man who doesn’t ask—who just takes.
I can’t see a thing.
The room is drenched in darkness—warm, heavy, and complete—but I feel him.
His presence is unmistakable.
Every breath, every shift of muscle and fabric, broadcasts his hunger like heat rolling off a fire.
He’s kneeling now.
I sense the weight of him settle between my knees, the mattress dipping just slightly under his mass.
I hold still, instinctively keeping my legs together, every nerve in my body alive with tension.
Not resisting, exactly. More like waiting.
Like my body knows something monumental is about to happen.
Then I feel it.
His fingertips.
They slide up slowly, deliberately, skimming the insides of my thighs. Not rushed.
Not greedy. More like, worshipful.
Like he’s savoring every inch of skin, every breathless twitch I try to control.
A strangled sound escapes him—half groan, half sigh—when his hands reach the plush, sensitive skin near the top of my thighs.
His fingers flex. His breath catches.
“You’re so fucking soft,” he rasps, voice like gravel over silk. “I’ve dreamed about this. About you.”
And then—oh fuck yes please.
He presses my legs apart.
Firm, unyielding pressure, not rough but final, like a door being opened with a key only he has ever held.
Like he has every right.
And I let him.
Because he does.
To my utter shame, I want him.
I want all of it.
The darkness. The danger. The utter loss of control.
Him. Mostly, I want him.
I feel my arousal drip onto the sheets beneath me, shameless and hot.
He growls softly at the feel—or maybe even the scent—of it, and his fingers trail higher, teasing the crease where thigh meets heat.
“Fuck, Princess,” he breathes. “You’re already soaked for me.”
A flush burns its way across my chest, my face, everywhere.
But I don’t pull away.
I tilt my hips forward instead, offering more.
This is wrong.
This is insane.
But it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed about late at night, between the pages of forbidden books and under the hush of velvet fantasies.
His touch becomes bolder.
Fingers gliding through slick folds, teasing my clit in featherlight strokes that make my legs tremble.
My hands fist the sheets. My head falls back. I moan.
“Please,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
His laugh is low. Possessive. Devastating.
“Please what, Princess?”
His voice is low, a growl laced with command, and it vibrates through me, deeper than sound, deeper than reason.
My pride should scream at me to stop.
To shut up. To deny him this.
But it shrinks—folds up like paper under the weight of the need clawing through me.
I swallow hard, lips trembling.
“Touch me,” I breathe, barely able to say it. “Don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t.
His fingers move with maddening precision. One slides inside me—slow, smooth, deliberate.
The stretch is perfect.
Not too much, not too little.
Just enough to make my walls flutter around him, greedy and shocked.
He doesn’t thrust. Not yet.
He holds.
Like he’s giving me a second to feel what it means to be touched by him.
To feel possession.
Not violence.
Not gentleness.
Worship.
“You touch yourself at night, Princess?” he asks, voice rasping against my ear. It’s not cruel.
It’s intimate. Hungry.
I flinch, caught.
My throat closes, but I nod. I can’t lie.
“I-I do,” I whisper.
“You make yourself come with your fingers?”
My body clenches around him, my face burning.
The honesty is terrifying. Liberating.
“S-sometimes. But sometimes I use toys,” I admit, voice barely audible.
He groans. Deep. Rough. Possessive.
“Toys,” he repeats, his free hand sliding up to cradle my jaw, keeping me still in the dark.
He hasn’t kissed me yet. And I want him to. I want to see him when he does.
“Do you rub them on your clit?”
As he says the words, his thumb brushes my sensitive bud—just once.
My hips jerk. A cry escapes me.
I nod frantically, unable to speak.
His breath hitches. Then hardens.
“Or do you put them in here?” he growls, his voice jagged as he slides another finger inside me, pushing in beside the first.
The stretch makes me gasp.
My pussy clenches down hard, needing it—needing more.
I’m soaked. I can hear how wet I am. So can he.
He moves slowly, curling his fingers just right, dragging them against the spot that makes my toes curl and my stomach drop.
No one’s ever done this.
No one’s ever touched me like this.
I moan—soft and broken—and my hips rock into his hand on instinct, searching for friction, chasing something wild and endless building deep in my core.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Fuck, look at you. Rocking your greedy little cunt on my fingers like you were made for it.”
My head tips back, lips parted, panting.
I don’t care anymore.
Not about who I am.
Not about who he is.
Not about the darkness, or how we got here.
All I know is that I need more.
And he’s the only one who’s ever known how to give it to me.
I can feel it building—fast.
Tight. Intense.
That first wave of pleasure, cresting like a storm.
