Page 49 of The Tower

And the truth I’m finding so hard to swallow? I want what I’ve had with Killiam in Elysium. Only now I want it with Grimm.

Not with a fantasy, but with the devil himself. And how fucking terrifying is that?

Fourteen

Claiming

I pause at the bedroom door, then tighten the sash on the hotel-provided robe. It’s soft and white and feels like a caress against my skin. More than that, it feels like safety.

“Dry off,” he’d said before leaving me alone in here. “Then come to bed. And Sasha,” he’d added. “Come out naked.”

He really couldn’t have been clearer.

But I can’t seem to make myself move.

I've stood here for at least five minutes, and each time I try to slip the robe off my shoulders, I freeze. In Elysium, I can be as bold as I want. Vale can strip bare, can beg for his touch, can surrender without consequence. But this is real. This is me—Sasha Reed, locked away for years, with no experience beyond digital fantasy.

If I walk naked into that room, I might end up cowering in a corner, hugging my knees as he looks down at me, anger flaring.

Better to make him angry while I'm standing. At least in the robe, I might have the wherewithal to fight back.

Decision made, I turn the knob and step out of the plush bathroom into the suite's even more plush bedroom. Framed landscapes. An overstuffed armchair. Uncovered windows that let in the vibrant light of the city at night, seemingly casting a spotlight onto the huge bed, as if it's a stage waiting for a performance.

What I don’t see is Grimm.

I start to turn around but am stopped by his firm hands on my shoulders. He’s behind me, and I freeze as those hands roam down, sliding over the thick material that covers my breasts, then lower until his fingers find the cinched belt. I expect him to open it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he puts one hand on my waist to pull me back toward him. So close that even through the thick material of the robe, I feel the hard length of his cock.

I tense, not wanting to admit to him or myself how deeply my body is reacting.

“Naughty girl,” he says, his breath teasing my ear as he speaks, sending shivers down my spine. His fingers release the belt, letting the robe fall open. “I believe I was clear.” His hands move to my shoulders, and he steps backward, taking the robe with him.

The brush of the material as it leaves my body feels both sensual and shameful, and I have to fight the urge to cover myself with my hands. I’m already in trouble for the robe. And even though he hasn’t said as much, I’m certain that trying to hide myself would be the absolute wrong thing to do.

Then his hands are on my naked skin. One on my waist, the other on my breast, his forefinger slowly teasing my nipple. I bite my lip, willing myself not to react. Hating how good this feels. How much I’ve craved the touch of this man who only sees me as a bludgeon he can hurl at my father.

“How long have you wanted me?” Once again, his whisper is a tease as sensual as his words.

“I don’t want you.” It’s a lie, and we both know it. Except I want it to be true.

The hand on my waist eases down, then slides along the juncture of my hip and thigh until his fingertips brush my sex. “Smooth,” he murmurs, trailing those fingers down over my waxed sex as he orders me to spread my legs.

I do—not only because I have no choice, but because I want what he’s offering. I hate myself for craving it—for craving him. But so help me, I do. I want to feel alive in this world, not only when I’m in Elysium. And why shouldn’t I?

He’s using me for revenge. It’s only fair I use him for sex.

“Christ, you’re wet,” he murmurs, and the heat in his voice coupled with his soft touch just about melts me.

I whimper, fighting an urge to beg for more as he thrusts two fingers inside me, my core closing tight around him, all semblance of coyness dissolving under this wild need.

He chuckles, soft and low. “Does your daddy know what a horny little thing his princess is? Do you like it when he spanks you?”

“Don’t talk about my father.”

“Tell me you want me.”

“Not you,” I lie, then gasp when the palm of his free hand smacks hard against my ass. I should be pissed as hell. Instead, my nipples ache and my core clenches even more intensely around his fingers. I bite my lower lip to keep from begging, hating the need that seems to have taken me over like a possessing spirit.

“Interesting,” he murmurs, and I tense, waiting for another smack. When it doesn’t come, I can’t escape the simple truth that I was both anticipating that sting … and craving it.