I back away from the door and sit on the bed. He hasn’t tried to have sex with me, but all his kissing and touching and staring tells me he wants to. Given my unsavory sex life, I can guess why he won’t.
One thing I can depend on, though, is his directness. So rather than making myself sick over assumptions, I wander toward the lunacy that’s in his closet.
Clothes and shoes line a wall that’s three times longer than my height. The quality of the fabrics and seams is unlike anything I’ve ever touched. I open the built-in drawers along the side and find heaps of lace, satin, and oh my God, leather lingerie. The tags have been removed, but everything looks new and exactly my size. I mold the cups of a red lacy bra around my boobs. Perfect fit. How the hell does he know my bra size?
Five minutes later, the bathroom door opens. I slip out of the closet, still wearing his t-shirt, and return to the bed to sit on the edge.
His black hair is partially dry, and the earlier tension in his muscles is gone. My attention falls to the bulge beneath his towel. It’s not tenting. I bet he touched himself, but why behind a closed door with the shower running? Emeric Marceaux does not get embarrassed.
He sits beside me on the bed, drops his bruised hand in my lap, and loops our fingers together. “To clarify my earlier reaction… I do not, in any way, object to you masturbating.”
Just hearing him say that naughty word sparks a firestorm inside me. “That’s good, because I’m definitely doing it again.” I lift a daring brow. “Whether you approve or not.”
“Killing me,” he mutters beneath his breath.
“Why?” Why not just touch me instead?
He pulls our laced hands between his spread knees and braces our elbows on the towel covering his thighs. “I love that you want to pleasure yourself.” He slides me a sexy grin. “I love it a little too much.”
“I hear a but coming.”
“But…” He flashes me another heart-racing smile. “I won’t show you how much I really love it until you’re ready.”
“You won’t show me your erection, you mean?”
He closes his eyes. “I’m not a gentle lover, Ivory.” He looks up, and his gaze lands on my lips. “I’m confident that, with time, you’ll discover you don’t want gentle. Until then, I’ll wait.”
“Behind a locked door?”
He nods.
I nibble my lip. “With an erection?”
The corner of his mouth bounces.
I glance at the outline of his cock beneath the towel. “You made yourself come?”
The potency of his stare riles my nerves as he rubs a hand over his jaw, rubbing, glaring hard, rubbing harder.
I really shouldn’t poke the beast, but… Deep breath. Strong voice. “Next time you jerk off, I want to watch.”
His inhale cuts off right before he launches. His chest collides with mine, hurdling me backward against the mattress. An oomph escapes my lips, but his mouth is there, devouring my voice, my air, and my sanity.
The weight of his body sinks mine into the bedding, his strength contracting around me as his hand slides up my ribs, taking the shirt with it. My fingers latch onto his hair, curling through the damp strands as he kisses me with firm lips and a devastatingly urgent tongue.
Held down by his size, my mouth controlled by his, I close my eyes and simply enjoy his feral affection. He catches my nipple and gives it a painful tug. When I gasp, he groans. I rock my hips, and he grinds his, pinning me to the bed and pressing his hard length against my core. A little more of that and his towel will fall off. Maybe I could help it along?
I reach behind him and glide a hand down the flexing ridges of his back. When my fingers bump the towel, I slip beneath it and meet the rise of hard firm muscle. My God, how can a man’s ass be so irresistible? I want to feel it with both hands, but his body’s too long to get a good grasp. I stretch my arms, reaching—
He grabs my throat and squeezes. The force of his grip shoves my chin up, and my hands lose precious inches on his backside.
The angle of my mouth gives him deeper access, his tongue curling around mine and his wet exhales heating my face. “I’m a raging fucking animal around you.”
I want to tell him to use me in whatever manner feeds his hunger, but as his fingers clench tighter around my throat, it’s too much. My lungs burn for oxygen, and black spots invade my vision. Panic rises, my jaw working against his. Not kissing. Fighting.
I can’t breathe. My hands flail against his back, my body bucking to escape. Let go. Let go.
The fist around my throat disappears, followed by his weight. I clutch my neck and wheeze for air as fear ices my veins and tears blur my eyes.
He stands beside the bed, righting the towel over the hard, jutting length I’ve yet to see.
Raking a hand through his hair, he glares down at me. “You’re not ready.”
I let go of my aching throat and sit up, shaking against a full-body tremor. “Ready for what? Sex?”
“For me!” He strides to the dresser and pulls out checkered socks and black briefs. “Keep that in mind the next time you ask to watch me jack off.”
My stomach sinks. “I don’t understand. Why did you strangle me? To scare me?”