The Wrong Wife (Morally Grey Billionaires #5)(65)

"You won’t?" I gasp.

"Not until I’ve teased you and taunted you and built up the anticipation, the expectation, the need that builds inside you, layer upon layer, until it consumes you and eats at you from the inside to get out, and then—"

"Then?" I breathe.

"Then, nothing." He releases me, steps back, turns and begins to walk away.

I blink. "What are you doing?"

"Going to bed, of course."

I gape, then anger crashes over me. I jump down from the island, and my cut-up clothes slither to the ground, leaving me without a stitch on. I ignore it, race forward, and launch myself at him. Of course, he hears me coming, so he turns and catches me. I raise my hand, intent on slapping him, but he throws me over his shoulder. Again.

"The hell? What are you doing?"

"Your anger is the most cleansing thing in the world, Little Dove."

"I’m not your Dove. And I’ll give you anger, you bosshole." I begin to rain blows on his back, his side, wherever I can reach. It makes no difference. He passes by Tiny, who raises his head and looks at us, then goes back to slurping from his water bowl. Argh! Not that he’d be able to help me. No one's going to stop what's going to happen—this man is going to ravish me tonight, and I’m going to love every bit of it.

More moisture slides down my inner thigh. His shoulder muscles ripple. Without breaking stride, he runs his fingers between my legs and brushes my throbbing clit. He doesn’t say a word, but he increases his pace until he’s almost jogging. My cheeks turn fiery. He’s noticed how turned on I am. And he can’t wait to claim me. I squeeze my eyes shut. And I find that so very sexy. So erotic. Oh god, oh, god, oh— He bursts into his room and kicks the door shut behind him. Then turns and locks it.

"What are you doing?" I squeak.

Without replying, he stalks toward the massive bed and throws me down on it. I bounce once, my arms and legs akimbo. My hair falls over my face, and I blow it out of the way. I jump up—my stilettos sink into the bed, but I don’t care—and throw up my fists.

He unbuttons the first button of his shirt, then another. Then, in that one-handed move that makes my insides squeeze together, he reaches behind himself and yanks off his shirt. He toes off his shoes, then shoves down his pants, his boxers and his socks in one sweep. When he straightens, I freeze. H-o-l-y hell. You’ve seen that scene where Daniel Craig emerges from the sea in that James Bond movie whose name I can’t recall, or a young, bare-chested Tom Cruise in Top Gun, or Channing Tatum in Magic Mike. Hell, pick any shirtless, hot man chest from any film and multiply that by a hundred—no, a thousand—and it wouldn’t compare to seeing Sir in the flesh. His shoulders are bunched, his chest tattooed and ripped, his abs a work of art, which should be cast in a mold and preserved for eternity. I gaze dreamily at his concave stomach, trim waist, and those powerful thighs—between which, his monster cock points straight at me. I gulp. The blood drains from my face. "Th-that… thing—"

"You mean my thang?"

I glance up in time to see his lips twitch.

"Did you crack a joke?" I whisper.

"I’m getting ready to crack you in half, baby."

His biceps flex, and I follow the rippling muscles of his forearm down to where he squeezes the base of his cock. The veins on the back of his palm stand out in relief as he strangles his cock from base to swollen head. Little drops of liquid ooze from the slit. My mouth waters. My breathing grows patchy. My breasts grow heavier, and a thick, liquid pulse slides down to coil behind my clit.

I should look away, I should, but that thang he’s holding in his fist is massive and ugly and beautiful and within its every ridge, it holds a promise that he can bring me to orgasm with a thrust. Also, it’s big. Too big. Way too big to fit into my tiny little hole. I swallow and take a step back. And his eyes flash. His lips thin, and a mean look comes into his eyes. And that’s scary and also, arousing. More moisture slides down from between my pussy lips. His nostrils flare. He takes a step forward. I skitter back. And it must please him, for his lips curl. The man’s stingy with his smirks. Good thing, too. I don’t think I have enough panties to change out of the ones that would melt every time he did it.

He tilts his head. "You going to run, Little Dove?" he growls.

I shiver and take another step back.

"You going to try to escape me?"

I nod, the motion jerky.

"Fine, then." He moves to the side. One hand fists his cock, the other he waves in the direction of the door.

I look at it, then back at him. "This is all a game to you, isn’t it?"

He merely stares back. The mask is back on his face, and I can’t read his expression. So annoying. I take a step forward, then another. And when he doesn’t move, a third one. I reach the end of the bed, then step down. I sit on the edge, reach for my stilettos, and he snaps, "Leave them on."

"What?"

"I want you to dig those heels into my back when I fuck you."

Oh, my god, I almost combust. Almost lie back and spread my legs and ask him to impale me right there. But that would be giving in too easily. Besides, some hidden part of me knows he wants me to run. He wants the thrill of the chase. The illusion that he allowed me a chance to escape, though we both know it’s just that. An illusion. No way, is he going to let me out of here with my virginity intact.