The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

“Please, let me out of here.”

We both seemed to know my words held two different desires: to be released from this glacial punishment and my internal cage.

My beating heart and the patter of water filled a moment of dense silence.

“You want your freedom, you have to earn it.” The demeaning, suggestive statement should break the spell between us, though the sound of his voice—cultured but tainted by a thicker accent than usual—slid down the back of my neck like a caress. I wanted to lean into it.

“I’m on my period,” I said dumbly, in the hope he would find it as unpleasant as Carter did, and I’d be saved from the immoral moment. I should have known that wouldn’t be the case.

A smile touched his lips. “A little blood has never scared me off.”

I swallowed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Get creative.”

Throat thick, hesitation stalled me. I wasn’t sure what he wanted from me or what I could even do with my arms tied above my head. This was my chance for some freedom, for a looser rein to figure out a plan of escape, but what good would that be if I drowned first? I guessed I would just have to learn to swim.

I did the only thing I could do.

Rising to my toes, I closed the distance until our lips were a hairsbreadth apart; until mine skimmed his with each shiver that rolled through me. I breathed against his mouth for a second, waiting for his reaction—any reaction that would induce the confidence to proceed—but nothing came. Frustrated, with a shaky wave of self-consciousness, I pressed my lips fully to his.

Gaining a little slack in the belt, my arms were held awkwardly above my head, so I rested them on his shoulders. He tasted like cinnamon, corruption, and something so masculine I inhaled deeply to breathe him in. As my mouth moved against his, all hesitation inside dissolved, replaced by a flood of fire that seared its way to the tips of my toes.

He didn’t reciprocate the kiss. In fact, he’d seemed more engrossed in his little games at breakfast than he was now. I suddenly needed a reaction from him like I needed to breathe.

Kissing him soft and slow, my leg slid up the side of his, curling around his hip to draw him closer, and then I licked the scar on his bottom lip. He exhaled roughly, stepping closer beneath the spray of water, and braced his hands on the shower wall on either side of me. He was warm, exuding so much heat I trembled and pressed against him to soak it in.

My blood vibrated in my veins, boiling below the surface. I slipped my tongue into his mouth, he sucked it with a graze of teeth, and the wet, hot glide pulsated in my core. His lips moved against mine, meeting every dip and lick with a more commanding one. As my leg tightened around his hip to urge him closer, a hand left the wall and grabbed ahold of my thigh, his fingers pressing into the flesh.

When he nipped my bottom lip, I bit him harder. The growl from deep in his chest vibrated against me. Desire inflamed in my stomach and tightened into a ball that demanded to be relieved. I was nothing but touch and feeling, floating on a cloud of lust so hot I was sure I wouldn’t survive if it popped.

Deepening the kiss, I released a suppressed moan. He swallowed it, brushing his tongue against mine. Consumed by fire and ice, I arched against him, desperate for contact, for friction, for absolution.

But hell had brought me here.

And hell would get me out.

I teased his lips with mine, licked, bit, pressed, and breathed, an ache blooming between my legs I would suddenly do anything to fill, period be damned. Exhaling a desperate hum into his mouth, I pressed closer, my body flush with his. His grip tightened on my thigh, and the restraint behind it—the idea he could bruise me, hurt me, but didn’t—only made me desperate for more.

He made an angry noise when I started to grind against the hard length of him in an effort to alleviate the ache, and that was when he pushed my leg off him and abruptly stepped away.

I was doused with cold water outside and in, but it didn’t steal the heat he left behind. Chest heaving with each breath, I watched him turn off the shower and work my wrists free like nothing happened, like he wasn’t affected at all, while I felt turned inside out, one foot in the underworld, and the other unsteady.

Then he walked away, leaving the door of my cage open with the chance of freedom beyond, but I could do nothing except stare after his retreat, shivering, with red wrists and the warmth of his mouth still on mine.

qui vive

(n.) heightened awareness or watchfulness

“It is time for lunch.” The lace hem of Yulia’s dress that went out of fashion two centuries ago swayed as she came to a stop in the doorway.

I sat on the settee in the drawing room, sightlessly staring out the large front window. “I’m busy.” Stewing in my own despair . . . But busy all the same.

Her eyes narrowed.

I’d thrown tea into Ronan’s face, and he didn’t kill me. He didn’t even leave a permanent mark. On my body at least. As for my mind, pride wouldn’t let me dwell on it, especially because the burn of his scruff and the ache that came to life still hadn’t dissolved. It was there, a perverse and restless coil of need.

Now I had the gut instinct he didn’t want to torture me physically, but I was also sure he found it a diverting amusement to smash my soft heart beneath his boot. Why else would he play with me for so long when revenge was his intention from the beginning? Maybe he was just trying to get a decent video. Although, he didn’t even attempt to come into my hotel room after he took me to lunch.