“Please,” I force out.
He flips us, my body pliable and willing beneath him as he lays me on the cushioned bench. His body looms over me like danger in human form, his eyes dark as he applies the perfect amount of pressure against my windpipe. His other hand glides down my body, lighting up my insides with sparks, his touch like gasoline to the fire in my veins. His palm skims along the hem of my skirt and he slips underneath, running the pads of his fingers right along the crease of my drenched underwear. My hips push against his hand, desperate to feel him touch my skin.
His grasp tightens on my neck at the same moment he sneaks beneath the seam of my panties. “So wet for me,” he says, his fingers coming up and smearing my arousal along the seam of my lips.
My heart skips, my stomach screwing up so tight it may shatter at any second.
“Such a delicious temptation.” He licks the juices from my mouth.
My legs tremble.
And then his hand is back at my core, two fingers spreading me open and slipping easily inside from how soaked I am. I gasp, my back arching at the intrusion.
His face is still next to mine, his mouth laving kisses along my jaw. “So tight. Has anyone touched you here before?”
I’m not sure if he wants me to say no, but the thought of him assuming I’m some untouched flower with zero experience is so unappealing, I can’t find it in me to lie. “Yes,” I rasp.
His eyes darken, fingers twitching against my esophagus. His breath coasts along my ear and down my neck, sending a chill racing along my spine. “No one is allowed to touch you here again.” His fingers pump in and out while his thumb circles slowly against my swollen clit. “I’m a very possessive man, Wendy. And I want you for myself.”
His words should set alarm bells ringing, but all they do is stoke the flames of my passion, making it hard to breathe.
Or maybe that’s his hand slowly increasing the pressure against my neck.
I suck in as deep a breath as I can with his iron vice grip, feeling like I might die if I don’t get to come. My head grows lightheaded as my lungs beg for air, my mind screaming for me to claw at him to try and relieve the pressure. My hand flies up, fingers wrapping around his wrist, the veins of his forearm tensing under my palm. My center contracts.
His grip on my throat tightens as the pressure in my clit pulses and throbs, spreading a tingling sensation through my body. A burn grows through my chest, radiating outward, and darkness rims my vision. And then I explode, my mouth opening on a silent scream, inner walls milking his fingers as if they want to suck him up and never let him leave. His hand immediately loosens, turning into soft, soothing strokes as I suck in mouthfuls of air, my chest heaving against his.
“Such a good girl,” he purrs.
Satisfaction courses through my veins and burrows deep into my chest; warm, and fluffy, and everything good. He moves, lifting my body so he can settle in behind me, and I curl up on him, his large hand stroking my hair and whispering words of praise.
I don’t try to speak, don’t try to think too hard over what I just let happen. How he’s treating me like some type of pet that he’s proud of—or how it makes me feel when he does. I just close my eyes and let this moment be what it is.
And when I wake up, I’m no longer on the deck, and I’m all alone.
15
James
The teakettle boils on the stove, and I stare at the backs of my hands as they grip the counter. That—what happened earlier with Wendy was unexpected. But Christ, the way she came apart under my fingers, the way she begged me to cut off her air supply and trembled beneath my touch, had me dangerously close to losing control.
And that is unacceptable.
I’d love to deny it, but unfortunately knowing one’s own weaknesses is paramount to overcoming them, and Wendy becoming a weakness is painstakingly obvious. Especially after I carried her off the sundeck to my personal quarters, and then proceeded to watch her sleep, enjoying the way her dark hair contrasted against the cream of my sheets.
I glare at the teakettle, irritated that she affects me so strongly. That she calls to my base urges and brings them to the forefront, making me wrestle for control. With a scoff, I push the kettle off the burner, running a hand through my hair.
“I can do that for you, you know,” Smee says as he walks into the room with the remaining dishes from dinner.
“That won’t be necessary, thank you.”
He nods, heading to the sink, placing the glasses next to the basin. “She’s a beautiful girl.”
“Hmm?” I ask, my thumb and forefinger rubbing against my chin.
“I said she’s a nice girl.”
I turn, taking him in. Smee is close to my age and has been working on my boat since I found him on the streets next to the JR when I was eighteen—the weekend after I killed my uncle. He was homeless, begging for change, but there was a look in his eye. Something that told me he was dealt a bad hand in life and just needed a way to regain control after it had been stripped away.
And that’s something I can relate to.
For weeks, I would visit him, taking small rations of money and warm food and clothes, watching from the sidelines to see if he was a byproduct of the drugs I funnel onto the streets, or if he was something else. Someone worthy of a second chance.
Luckily for him, it was the latter.
When I bought The Tiger Lily with my parents’ inheritance; the one that was kept from me by my uncle, I went straight to Smee, and offered him room and board. A new chance. A fresh start. So long as he swore his loyalty and only worked for me. Outside of Ru, he’s been the most constant thing in my life.
Still, I keep him at arm’s length, not allowing him to know about the darkest parts of my life. Anyone can flip if given the right incentive, and while I know Smee would follow me to the ends of the earth, I’m not willing to risk him being snatched up and spilling secrets that aren’t his to tell. It would be a shame to have to end his life.
“I don’t need you to approve of my conquests, Smee. Wash the dishes and keep my yacht in check. That is what I pay you for,” I snap.
“Apologies, boss man.” He nods and turns his back, focusing on the dishes in the sink. But his words have filtered through my already frayed edges. I know what a nice girl Wendy is, her pure-hearted innocence bleeds from her pores like oil, shiny and impossible to look away from. Maybe that’s why she calls to me the way she does—the pitch-black parts of my soul aching for her light.
Heading back to my personal quarters, I remind myself of what’s at stake. She’s a tool. Something to be used and broken, a means to an end and nothing more. And while I’m quite looking forward to enjoying myself with her, allowing these feelings to muddle up my insides will do me no good.
My purpose reinforced, I slide open the door, steps faltering when I see her sitting up in the center of my bed, hair a mess on her head and eyes still heavy with sleep.
A grin lights up her face, making my stomach tighten.
“Hi. I was worried when I woke up all alone.”
I sit on the edge of the bed. “My apologies. I thought you might be thirsty but then realized I’m not sure what you’d like.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks grow round with her smile. “That’s nice of you. For a moment, I was worried I’d been kidnapped. Waking up in a strange room was a little disorienting.”
“Wonderful kidnappers to keep you in such high-quality sheets.”
“Well… you never know, they could have been trying to trick me into submission.”
My lips twitch, amusement bubbling in my chest. “Trick you?”
“Yeah, you know.” She moves a strand of hair from her forehead. “Stockholm syndrome or whatever.”
My brows raise. “And you think you’re susceptible to such a thing?”
She nods. “I think we’re all susceptible to strange things when our emotional and physical state are under duress.”
“Very astute, darling.” Nausea churns in my gut.
The back of her hands come up to rest against her cheeks. “I’m so sorry I fell asleep after…You know. I didn’t mean to.”
She shakes her head and a faint dusting of color catches my eye. My arm moves forward to brush my fingertips along the pink marks gracing her neck. “Don’t ever apologize for finding comfort with me.” I remove my hand, blood rushing to my groin as I realize she bears my prints around her throat like a collar. “Is your neck okay?”
Her hand moves from her cheek to her windpipe. “It’s fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“It doesn’t hurt.” Her lips turn up. “It feels perfect.”
“It looks as though it may bruise.”
She shrugs.