Page 155 of Brutal
I grab her by the hips and haul her forward so she smacks against my chest. The contact is electric—her heat and mine, the friction of denim, that impossible scent of hers that drives me to the brink of insanity.
She touches my cheek, scrapes her fingernails over my jaw. Then, quick as a flash, she captures my lower lips with her teeth and bites down.
Hard.
Fuck…
She drops my lip and then meets my gaze. “You can’t hurt me, Samson. You can try, but you can’t.”
It’s a dare. Not a challenge, not a warning. She’s taunting me because she’s already counting on the ways I might hurt her.
Because she wants them.
I grab the neck of her T-shirt with both hands and pull the fabric apart so that it rips under my touch.
She doesn’t gasp.
She doesn’t back away.
When the shirt is in tatters on the floor, I get rid of her bra, let her tits fall against her chest. I squeeze them, twist the nipples, and then smack them both until they’re rosy.
Next I take her wrists and hold them in one hand, feeling how delicate her bones are under her flesh. The impulse to snap them is sharp. I could do it so easily.
Instead I pull her close, let go of her wrists, and then push her back down on the bed.
I remove her boots with more force than necessary and fling them across the room. One of them hits an old vase on a reading table. Glass shatters and falls to the floor.
I don’t give a shit about the noise. About the mess. About the delicate things that have somehow survived my ownership until tonight.
I slide my hands up her denim-clad calves and over her knees, finding the edge of her jeans. The denim is already ripped over one thigh. I tug at it and peel them off her, taking the black underwear with them.
She’s naked on my bed. The light from the chandelier overhead bathes her in gold and shadow.
I keep my pants on as long as I fucking want, because I like the way she looks at me with her legs open and her hands fisting the blankets and her lips parted like she might say something.
She doesn’t.
She’s breathing hard, and that pulse… The one in her neck…
Fuck.
I kneel on the edge of the bed, crowd her legs wider with my knees. I move like a fucking animal, yanking her wrists above her head, pinning them together with one hand. She struggles a little, but I’m past caring.
I press my mouth to her breast, biting the soft skin until she arches, and then I soothe it with my tongue. I work my way down her body, licking and biting, taking what I want.
She’s slick already, thighs wet, and when I run my fingers down and in, she shudders and moans.
“Look at you,” I say. “You’re mine, Delaney. All of you.”
Her eyes flutter, but she moans louder when I twist her wrists hard enough to bruise. I don’t let go. I want her open, and I want her pinned, and I want her not just to surrender, but to need the surrender more than her next lungful of air. I taste her—again, again, slow and then brutal and then slow so she doesn’t know whether to grind against my face or run from it.
She tries to break her hands free, but I have her held down, and I keep my eyes open, watching every second of her unraveling.
And when I look up at her from between her legs, meet that steely gaze…
She shatters.
I make her do it, I force her to do it, and she shakes so hard I feel it in my bones, an aftershock in my nerves.
