Christ, if he didn’t get his mouth on her soon, he’d go mad.
Dorian had no fucking idea what he was doing, but her scent lured him down until he pressed his lips to her sex.
Her hips flinched beneath him, arched a little, and he could tell she fought to remain passive, but her body betrayed her. Good. Because his betrayed him, as well.
She tasted like heaven. Like desire and release. Like want and fulfillment. Like woman. His woman. The predator in him was going to dine until he’d had his fill.
And he had a lifetime of hunger to satiate.
The frantic need to struggle against her bindings had leached away from Farah the moment her husband’s mouth had closed over her fingers.
When he’d issued his vulgar threat in her ear, arousal had raced through her with crippling strength. Now his wide shoulders overflowed the space between her parted thighs, and his mouth was doing things that made her bite her lip so hard she tasted blood.
His tongue split her in one long lick. He growled against her, and Farah whimpered in reply, unable to stop herself.
But she didn’t say a word. Not. One. Word.
Blackwell had become that jaguar she’d evoked the first time she’d laid eyes on him. His shoulders rolled and bunched just so as he settled in for a feast. He left no part of her unexplored. His bold tongue found places she’d never known she possessed. He parted her with his fingers, exposing her in a way so absolute, she could barely stand it. And yet, she read the veneration on his face as he looked at her, as he tasted her, as if he committed every single crevice and protuberance to memory. He learned very quickly what made her gasp, what caused her to arch or retreat. He played like a man who’d only just learned how. Testing her reactions, re-creating sensations, enjoying a bit of cruelty as only the Blackheart of Ben More could. Driving her to the edge of her wits and then pulling back, leaving her groaning, straining, and sweating.
She jerked as his finger found its way inside her slick channel, and the vibration of his groan against the soft hood of flesh he’d sucked into his mouth with a flattened tongue shattered her composure.
Farah screamed with the force of it. The need to grip, to knead, to flail seized her, and she tested the strength of her bonds. The harder she struggled against them, the more potently the bliss ripped through her blood and out her throat in desperate screams. He stayed with her, riding the frantic thrusts of her hips as she ground her heels into the mattress and arched. For a moment, she thought the release would break her in half, but he was there, pressing her hips back down and forcing her to experience the devastating finish. She closed her eyes, but light still burst behind her lids. She could feel the muscles of her sex gripping and releasing his gloved finger. Pulling him deeper.
And then he was gone.
Farah collapsed, panting and shivering with exhaustion. Feeling trapped and yet released.
Her head lolled to the side, and she looked down at him from beneath heavy lashes. What she saw made her eyes peel wide.
Dorian had undone his trousers, and knelt between her quivering knees palming his turgid erection. The act they were about to commit hadn’t intimidated Farah until now.
His dark features both ruthless and almost apologetic, he bent and prowled up her body, stopping to slick a bit of moisture from his glove on one nipple and then proceeding to lick it off.
“God, the taste of you. I’m drunk with it.” He moaned, his eyes alight with accusation as he held himself above her, still fully clothed but for the arousal now pressing against the slit of her body. “What have you done to me?”
What had she done to him? “I—I—”
His glove covered her mouth again, stopping words she never would have found.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he whispered against her ear. “I’m sorry.”
Farah didn’t have time to contemplate just which of his many offenses he was apologizing for before he surged inside her, breaching her virginity.
His glove muffled her cry of pain as Dorian branded her with hot, hard flesh, searing all the way to her womb, or so it seemed.
He cursed, spewing blasphemies Farah hadn’t even encountered in all her years at the Yard. Though her flesh stretched and bled, his scarred face contorted into what appeared to be a mask of pain.
Farah strained against her bonds, against his hand, wanting to escape the pain, wanting to soothe him, wanting control of her limbs back.
But control was something the Blackheart of Ben More would never allow.
Dorian forced himself to look at her. To witness the pain in her eyes. The pain he inflicted. How cruel was a God that made entering her body the sweetest pleasure for him and the sharpest torment for her?
She wanted this, he reminded himself.
Not as much as you, whispered a dark voice.
I never wanted to hurt her, he argued. And never like this.
You wouldn’t have stopped until you claimed her. Until you’d tasted her like this, until you’d invaded her like this.
She’d never deny me, he thought frantically.
Then take your hand off her mouth.
He didn’t. He couldn’t.
So locked in a battle with himself, Dorian almost missed the gradual give of her intimate flesh locked so tightly around his own. In warm, slick little pulses, she accepted him into her body. The fight and fear drained out of her muscles until they were soft and pliant beneath him and the pain and panic leached from her gray eyes until they were pools of silver again.
He remained motionless, his every sinuous muscle wound tight as a coil. He was on the edge of a precipice, one he couldn’t bring himself to leap from.