Fucking flowers.
It lingers in the room and on the man behind me like a ghost.
Fuck him.
Refusing to face him, I start toward the door. “Well, good night, then.”
“Fuck no.” He slams the door shut with a palm on the side of my head. His chest presses to my back, jamming me against the wood as his hot breaths whisper in my ear, “You’re not going anywhere, lotus flower.”
13
NIKOLAI
I can taste the flames of hesitation and the warring conflict rolling off my lotus flower in waves, and I want to dart my tongue out and consume it.
Suck it between my lips.
Crunch it beneath my teeth.
Bran’s back muscles stiffen underneath my chest like whenever he’s trying to fight, escape, or reject whatever lurks in his scornful head. I’ve given up trying to understand how his mind works, give him space, or be logical about these emotions sweeping me away.
I suck at that.
My modus operandi has always been to act first and think of consequences later. There’s no reason why that should change now.
Besides, he obviously wants me. I can see it in his mystic eyes that often conceal his feelings, but when the mask drops, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in that coral blue, surrounded by a halo of lust.
Sure, there’s also hate and disregard as well. There’s confusion and self-preservation. But who gives a fuck about those irrelevant emotions?
Certainly not me.
Tension rolls and crackles whenever we’re in the same space. It doesn’t matter whether it’s in public or in the confinement of my bedroom. If he’s here, I’m soaring and riding on the high of his presence.
The beast in me wants to drag out the hidden beast in him and play.
I want to shatter his control, wreak havoc on his golden-boy image, and disrupt his life.
I want to sink my teeth into his skin and feed on the lust that radiates from his unsaid words.
Until I drain him.
Until there’s nothing left of him. Or me.
I inch even closer so that I’m covering him entirely and my raging erection presses against his firm ass.
Needless to say, I’ve been as hard as a rock since he shoved Clara away from me. I like to think he didn’t want her to touch me, not the other way around.
Because he told her to leave and he didn’t follow.
Call me delusional, but I choose to believe the calm anger he displayed was due to being possessive of me.
He squirms, his ass brushing accidentally—or not so accidentally—against my cock and I groan.
God-fucking-damn-it.
Why the fuck is mere contact turning me into an animal? The thought of claiming him ticks in my brain like a bomb, drowning any trace of other thoughts. Not that I have many of those when he’s around, but still.
He inches closer to the door as if he can escape me. Not possible in this lifetime and any future ones, if I have a say in it.
“Don’t touch me,” he orders, but his voice carries nothing of the usual haughtiness he breathes instead of air.
“But I love touching you, my Prince Charming.”
“I don’t give a fuck about what you love, and I’m not your Prince Charming.” He swings around, the sheer mass of his body lunging forward, eyes blazing with a fire so fucking wild, I want to fan it, turn it as bright as an inferno.
He tries to push against me, but I slam my hands against the door on either side of his head, my chest shoving his. I’m so close, I can smell the alcohol on his breath and see that fire burning in his eyes.
More.
I smirk, staring down at his puffed-out lips. “Someone is mad.”
“Fuck you.”
“Baby, you know I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
He grabs me by the throat, fingers digging ruthlessly into the sides. “You need to stay the hell away from me.”
“No.” I try to step closer and he tightens his grip until I can barely breathe. My lungs burn, and I can feel the veins in my neck bulging.
“I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“Mmm. Love it when you get rough.”
“You think I’m joking?” His short nails sink into my skin. “Touch me and I’ll choke you to death.”
“Tell me more. Your mouth makes me so fucking hard.” I roll my hips and slam them against his groin.
And fuck.
Fuck me.
“Looks like I make you hard, too. If I reach inside your pants, will I find you leaking for me?”
“You fucking—” His face flushes a subtle shade of red and his fingers compress so hard, they shake.
He’s shaking, my Prince Charming, losing his precious control one layer at a time.
And what do I do?
Trap him between my teeth and never let go. Of course.
I’m getting under his skin. The first step of being inside him.
“You can fight me, can choke the life out of me, but that won’t stop you from wanting me,” I strain and wrap my hand around his throat, on the hickey he’s hiding as if his life depends on it. “You came here to stop me from fucking Clara. You weren’t mad for her, you were mad at her. You didn’t like the way she touched me and called me babe, right?”
“Shut your mouth.”
“You’re pissed off at me because I let her touch me?”
That beautiful rage shines bright behind his eyes, but then he says the exact opposite of what he thinks, “Why would I care what you do?”
“Always playing a role, my lotus flower. Hiding, pretending. You obviously broke up with her tonight. Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“How…?”
“She told me she was going through a breakup and was looking to forget at the pub.” I try to get my head closer, but he keeps me in place with his unyielding hold. “You did it for me, didn’t you? You lost her because I told you to. No. You did it because you wanted to be with me. Because you know I’m the only one who can give you what you need.”
“Stop dreaming.”
“Stop fucking pretending.” I remove the Band-Aid at his throat, revealing the purple hickey. “Stop hiding.”
He shakes his head, but his fingers loosen around my throat. Bran isn’t weak. Sure, I have more muscles, but he has strength. The reason he let me touch him the previous times isn’t because he couldn’t stop me. It’s because he chose not to stop me.
Like right now.
His war for control breaks like ice beneath his feet.
I’m the lake waiting to swallow him fucking whole.
My fingers spread on his sharp jaw, my lips an inch from his, breathing notes of alcohol and mint off his fractured exhales.
“Don’t you dare…” he whispers and it’s shaky, breathless.
The asshole clearly wants me, he’s burning for it. His body language gives him away. Eyes darkening, nostrils flaring, and fingers holding my neck so lovingly—though he’d argue otherwise—and his huge dick is performing a standing ovation for me.
But he’s still fighting tooth and nail, still refusing to admit the inevitable.
“Want to blame me again?” I murmur against his skin.
A puff of air leaves his mouth and he nods once.
“Then blame me all you want, baby.”
I slam my lips to his, taking what’s mine.