Page 131 of The Devil We Crave
I’m still throbbing and obsessed with how smooth my thighs feel under my fingertips as I watch him cross the room. A lighter flicks, and he touches it to the wicks of about a dozen half-melted candles sitting in a variety of old metal holders sitting on a rickety table.
My eyes dart to the door. In a supremely dumb move, I lurch off the counter and try to bolt toward it.
I only make it about one and a half steps before muscled arms wrap around me like iron. I choke on a scream as he drags me across the room, sits heavily in a creaky old chair at the table with the candles, and yanks me into his lap, facing away from him.
My dress bunches almost all the way up to my hips, completely exposing the tiny black thong I’m wearing. The dress itself is molded to every curve of my body, and just breathing has it dragging electrically over my tight, pebbled nipples.
That same euphoria tickles over my skin. Even like this, pinned to him in his fucking murder shack, I can’t stop noticing howgoodeverything feels.
Thanks, drugs.
“What did you take?”
I purse my lips as I twist my face to glare at him.
Achilles sighs, and when his heavy hand lands high on my bare thigh, I gasp. “I could force it out of you,” he growls.
I sneer. “Evenyouwouldn’t do anything to me right now,” I mutter. “Not when you know I’m on drugs.”
His grip tightens. “That’s a misconception I’mexcitedto relieve you of.”
My breath catches.
“Ecstasy,” I finally mumble. “I…I accidentally took ecstasy.”
Achilles says nothing, but his hand slides away from my bare thigh.
“W-what are you going to do to me,” I whisper. My back is to his chest, but I can feel his face hovering just to the left of and slightly above mine.
I yelp as a knife suddenly slams into the table in front of me, the tip splitting the wood. Achilles leaves it there, embedded half an inch into the tabletop, and slides his fingers to my lap.
Pure electricity buzzes over my skin when he takes my hand, and I have to bite down on my lip to stop frommoaning. A thunderclap cracks outside, and I jump as he sets my hand palm-down on the table in front of us.
“Achilles—”
“Can I trust you, Yelena.”
It doesn’t even come out as a question.
“The games I play,” he growls, “like the one we played the other night?—”
“When you chased me like a psycho?!” I snap.
“It would behoove you,” he sighs, “to stop pretending I don’t know every single one of your darkest fantasies. That I don’t know what makes you wet in the dark of night, when you think no one is watching.”
My core tightens, and that slithering, needy thing coils around my center.
“I know what sort of dark delights dance through that fucked-up head of yours, little prey,” he murmurs quietly into my ear, making me shudder. “And they’re the same sort of delights that turnmeon.”
It’s then, when it pulses underneath me, that I realize it’s not his cellphone I’m feeling against my ass.
It’s hiscock.
“But games like that require a high level of trust.”
I shiver, trying not to squirm on his lap even though that thick bulge throbbing against me makes me want to outright grind on him right now.
…Much more than that, actually.
