The Reaper (Dark Verse 2)

She felt owned. “And what if I want them to touch me?” she asked the same question she’d asked Maroni.

His lips twitched, his hand pressing her closer to his body. “You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because,” he leaned into her neck, his lips ghosting over her skin as he spoke, “you come alive only for me.”

Morana shivered, her toes curling into the carpet as her jaw trembled. He was right.

Not wanting to be left a step behind, Morana boldly rubbed her hips against his, feeling him harden against her back, and declared. “Mine.”

And for the first time since she had known him, she saw a smile crack his face. It was small, just a little curve of lips, but it was genuine and it was there. And it tilted her world on its axis because he had a dimple.

He.

Had.

A.

Fucking.

Dimple.

She stared at it in surprise, somehow thrown by such a simple thing, wondering who had been the last person to see that dimple.

Their eyes, still locked together, had an entire conversation in themselves. His smile dropped slowly by degrees and she shook her head, raising her hand behind her in the mirror, feeling the scruff brush against her palm for the first time.

That pushed him over the edge. His other hand pulled the dress up and over her ass as she bent forward, giving him room to move, their eyes connected the entire time. She felt his fingers between her legs, testing her wetness. She was dripping.

“Clean?”

She felt the weight of that one word question in his husky whisper. She knew it would change things, knew it was one step closer together. Wordlessly, she nodded. He nodded his own answer.

Just as wordlessly, she felt the tip of him behind her. She went on her toes to get level, canting her hips to ease access for him as his fingers left her, going to under her knee and pulling it up. She balanced her feet on the edge of the dresser, the other held up on her toes with his strength. His other hand stayed steady on her throat as his eyes stayed steady on hers. She realized it would be the first time she would actually see him when he entered her, the first time he would enter her naked.

Anticipation built, her heart thudding in her ears, her skin aware of everywhere they touched and aware of every breath he took.

And then he thrust into her suddenly.

A loud yelp escaped her as the dresser banged against the wall, her mouth opening on a pant as her walls welcomed him in. The fact that there were listening devices all over the room, the fact that he didn’t care, and neither did she, the fact that just the banging of the dresser would have made people in the house aware of what was going on sent a thrill down her spine.

Their eyes on each other, understanding passing between them, he pulled her flush against him, his cock lodging itself deeper inside her, sending heat through her body. He pulled out almost completely, her walls quivering with the loss, before he plunged in, harder. The dresser banged into the wall louder. She moaned, her breaths escalating and his roughened, her muscles clenching around him like a vise. His hand left her knee, going to her throbbing clit, rubbing.

Her eyes fluttered close on the onslaught of sensation.

“Name,” he growled. Her eyes opened slightly, finding his, confused. “Say my name.”

Her heart stopped. She gulped, aware of him pulsing inside her. His fingers flexed on her throat, so big he encompassed it, the sense of danger and safety mingling together in a heady concoction.

“Mr. Caine,” she whispered, her eyes glued to his.

He took the skin of her neck between his teeth, tugging. “Name.”

“Tristan Caine,” she muttered.

He pinched her clit, making her hips rock involuntarily.

“Tristan,” she sighed, her hands holding the dresser tightly.