Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25253 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25253 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
I lean in. My chest rubs against his shoulder. “So that she would be only yours?”
“Careful, Angel,” he warns. “Every man succumbs to temptation at some point in his life.” His warning falls on deaf ears. Especially to a girl that has never been claimed by anyone. There isn’t anyone out in the world searching for me. No one knows that I’m gone.
“But you haven’t, have you? Not even once?” He turns his head to face me.
“Never.”
“Not even a kiss?” My eyes drop to his mouth.
“I’m not a tender man. You don’t know what you’re trying to get yourself into.”
“You might be right. In fact, if you give me something, I’ll stop,” I offer. I’m not sure it’s much of an offer because he’s the one always coming after me.
“You have nowhere to go. You don’t need to leave.”
“I wasn’t going to ask to leave, but we don’t have to make a deal.” I pretend I’m about to get up, but he stops me. His arm comes out and pushes me back, so I stay put. I can see it all over his face. He relishes the control he just took over me.
So do I. If this were anyone else, I’d be freaking out, but Bjornsson’s darkness doesn’t scare me. I think a part of that darkness is what lures me in. Do I want tender? Yes, but I also want to be owned. I can still feel where he grabbed my wrist, or maybe I’m fantasizing about it. The redness has already faded.
“What is it?”
“I want a kiss.” His eyes actually widen.
My heart races as I wait for a response, terrified either way. Will he push me away or give me something neither he nor I have ever given anyone else before?
CHAPTER 11
BJORNSSON
Under my thumb, her heartbeat races. I could take her here in the garden and no one would know. It’s far from the main house. There are no cameras in the interior gardens of the property.
There's nothing in this garden but the plants, the birds, and the sound of trickling water from Cupid into the pool below. There are no traces of the punishments that have taken place here. The stone pavers don’t reveal the number of men who have kneeled before the fountain or the blood that has been washed away.
None of that shows, but I still see it. Angel does not belong here. She is too good for this life, this world. If I was truly a decent person, I would send her away. Not to Santino, but far away from this world with enough funds that she could create a new life. I've done that for others, but I know I won't do it for her.
My thumb presses into that throbbing vein. She releases a small gasp, a hiccup of sound. Need, hot and fiery, washes over me. Her lips find mine. I don’t know who made the first move, but the divine hand could not separate me from her at this moment. Electricity courses through me. I’m a light from within, illuminated by desire that I’ve never felt before. All the promises I previously made to hold myself apart from this world are rendered to dust.
My hands find her waist and pull her until she’s on my lap, her legs wrapped around my waist and her arms around my neck. I angle her head to drive my tongue deeper. Her hips begin to move, a slow undulation designed to drive me crazy. It’s working.
I slide my hands over the curve of her ass until my fingers meet her hot center. Even through the cloth I can feel the pulse and clench of her sex. I know this is forbidden. I know it, but I don’t care.
I make a million bargains in my head. We’ll keep our clothes on. I won’t use anything but my tongue and hand. Images skip in front of my face of all the ways my tongue and hands could be put to use. My fingers squeezing her tits. My tongue between her legs. My face buried in her ass.
Just this once then. Just this one time.
I move my fingers in a slow pattern, a circle and a sweep, forward and back, in rhythm with the thrusts of her hips. The back of my fingers rub against my erection. I open my mouth wider, wanting more of her.
The fabric beneath my fingers dampens. Her breath in my ear quickens.
“Bjornsson, Bjornsson,” she says, her voice high, choked as if the pathway for air in her throat has shrunk.
“Tell me what you want,” I urge.
“I—you—my—” The short words tumble out of her. It’s not clear if she’s afraid to ask or she doesn’t know. She grasps my face in her hands and kisses me as if she can impart her desires through action rather than words. I taste the desperation on her tongue.