Consent (The Loan Shark Duet 2)

A flutter of nervous anticipation races through my belly, burning my core as his hands fasten on my waist. Instead of lifting me into the bath, he walks me backward to the window until my back presses against the glass. The crisp chill of the autumn air penetrates my skin, but heat runs down my spine. He arranges me like a butterfly pinned for framing and takes a step back. For several seconds, he only looks at me, his gaze trailing from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. There’s fire in his eyes, but it’s his hands I want. I crave them on me with a desperation that makes my breath shallow and my breasts heavy. When he finally comes closer again, his clothes brush against my skin. It takes all of my self-control not to rub up against him in search of the contact I need.

Holding my eyes, he reaches between my legs. My body trembles when he lightly outlines my folds.

“I’ll understand if you don’t want this,” he says. “I know how it is with a pregnant woman.”

The fact that he’s giving me a choice comes as a big surprise. It’s the last thing I expected from him. But I do. I want him there and deeper. Cupping his hand, I guide his middle finger inside.

He lets out a groan and rests his forehead against mine. “You’re wet. I trained your body too well.”

There’s no arguing that fact. Every long and frightening night of my freedom I yearned for him, for the way he now gathers my moisture and spreads it to my clit. I gasp when he presses the pad of his finger on the nub and holds the pressure without giving me the stimulation I need. Forcing my hips to be still, I wait for permission to have my release. His breath chases over my face as he keeps the stance, his hard-on a thick rod against my hip.

His jaw flexes as he grinds his teeth. I don’t know why, but he fights wanting me. Me? I’ve given up a long time ago. I’m a realistic girl. I know I’m an object, something to satisfy his sexual cravings for dominance and manipulating my pleasure, but I’ve come to accept his control over my body as I’m coming to terms with my new captivity. I’ll never be free or loved, and I’m not going to deny myself the only thing I have––unequalled physical passion. If this is what my life has been reduced to, I’ll take what I can get. I’m not masochistic enough to refuse the breadcrumbs when I’m starving. There will be other things that can fill the hole in my heart and the hankering for love in my soul. A career, a child, finding joy and gratitude in each moment. In this moment, I can have a piece of Gabriel by giving him what he wants most. My pleasure. My submission.

Cupping his beautiful, masculine, scarred face, I guide his lips to my breast, showing him what I’m prepared to take and give.

“Valentina.” My name is a broken sound on his lips. He brushes his mouth over my nipple. “Are you sure about this?”

I drag my hand through his hair, tugging on the strands. “Isn’t this what husbands and wives do on honeymoon?”

He looks up at me with the kind of intention that’s fierce enough to scare. “No.” The word is loaded. It slips out on a huff of strained control. “This is not how husbands and wives behave.”

I know what he means. Husbands and wives make love. They don’t devour each other with a hunger that borders on obsession, on something so perversely pleasurable it feels wrong.

The air leaves his lips on a gush, a moment of sublime surrender. The fight to keep his distance melts into the kiss he plants on my breast. He groans when his tongue touches the tip. With a catch of his breath, he draws me deeper.

My knees buckle at the scorching hotness of his mouth as he licks and bites. Gone is the cotton wool in which he wrapped me earlier, and back is the man I’m addicted to. He lets go of my sex to squeeze my other breast between his fingers. His mouth moves to that peak, sucking with a force that pulls blood to the engorged tip. When I moan, he lets go with a pop.

He rubs a palm over the curve. “Jesus, I gave you a hickey on your tit.”

I don’t care. My body has worn his marks before, marks harsher than the red spot on my breast. His name falls needy and breathlessly from my lips.

Contained desire replaces the predator look of a moment ago. Once again, Gabriel is in control. He kneels in front of me and hooks my leg over his shoulder. Folding his hands around my waist, he helps me keep my balance while his mouth goes to the juncture of my thighs. He watches me as he teases my folds with his tongue, running the tip over my heated flesh. When he bites lightly into my labia, I jerk and try to move away, but his big hands keep me in place. It’s the grueling way in which he sucks on my clit and runs his teeth over the aching nub that has my toes curl with unbearable pleasure. He pulls back, all the while holding my eyes, and parts my pussy lips. His gaze leaves mine to study the flesh in the V of his fingers.