When She Loves (The Fallen, #4)(63)

“You called me your jailer. Maybe it’s time I start acting like one.”

Her mouth parts in shock. Her arms flex as she tests the restraint, but it’s no use. She’s at my mercy now.

“Take it off.” Her voice shakes.

“No.”

I drag my gaze over her body, down to where I can see the triangle of her underwear peeking out. My thumb brushes her slit through the fabric. She whimpers. I do it again. And again. Until she’s shaking, struggling to stay still.

She glances over her shoulder like she’s worried Sandro’s watching us. He can’t see anything from the angle he’s at.

I dig my fingers into her thighs and lean forward, pressing my lips to her ear. “I should fuck you right here and have you bleed all over the seat. Maybe I’ll ask Sandro to clean it up afterward.”

I expect her to curse me, but she doesn’t.

When I lean back, indignation burns inside her eyes. Like she knows I’m not this, that I’d never do this, and that I’m not fooling her, so why am I saying it? Just to hurt her? The way she hurt me? My chest spasms.

No, nothing hurts you.

She leans forward and kisses me.

This time, it’s different. Soft. Apologetic. Conciliatory.

I turn my head, ending it. I’m not done being angry at her.

“I want to punish you,” I whisper.

“Then do it,” she whispers back.











CHAPTER 29











CLEO


Rafaele stares at me over the low hum of the car’s engine and the barely there song playing on the stereo. The silence clogs my throat, but I don’t dare break it. We hit a speed bump. I bounce in his lap and make contact with something hard.

My tongue darts out past my lips, and his gaze dips to my mouth.

The air in the car feels more charged than the sky before lightning strikes.

See the problem with not thinking about consequences? It’s how you end up in the back seat of a car with your wrists zip-tied, lips raw, and heart aching.

I should have known he’d get angry about how long it took me to tell him the truth, but I needed that time to sort through my feelings. I’m taking a huge leap of faith here.

His hands, big and warm, are on my thighs. He traces the edge of my panties with his fingertips. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. He’s so far gone inside his head. The tendons in his neck are taut, and his jaw hasn’t unclenched since I whispered into his ear.

Is he thinking of the ways he’ll punish me?

“What will you do to my father?” I ask, if only to pretend like I’m not buzzing with anticipation.

My husband is a killer. I should be scared of what he’ll do to me. But it’s not fear that’s making my pussy clench. There’s a dark promise inside his gaze, the kind that makes me think of tangled sheets, bite marks, and filth muttered against my ear.

“He will die, but I’m done talking about him tonight.”

I nod. I guess, so am I. What happens to my father now is out of my hands. He dug his own grave.

The car glides to a smooth stop.

“We’re here,” Sandro says.

Heat travels up my neck in a wave. I don’t know how much Sandro saw or heard, but I know it’ll be a while before I can bring myself to look my driver in the eye again.

“No need for you to come out,” Rafaele instructs, his gaze on me. “Go home, Sandro.”

“Yes, boss.”

Rafaele lifts me off him, pulls the skirt of my dress back down, and opens the door.

He helps me out and wraps a hand around my biceps. The zip tie digs into my wrists as he walks me up the front steps. Behind us, the car starts, and Sandro drives off.

Rafaele unlocks the door and gives me a light shove inside. The house is silent. The staff are gone this late in the night. There’s no one here but us.

Even if I scream, no one will save me.

The door locks. I feel that harsh click reverberate deep inside my gut. A tendril of fear licks over my nape, but it’s swallowed by another wave of heat.

Rafaele stops us in the middle of the foyer and turns me around with a tug on my arm.

The moonlight makes love to the sculpted lines of his face, tracing his furrowed brow, strong jaw, and sharp cheekbones. He lifts his hands to the neck of my dress and curls his big fists around the fabric.

I can guess what he’s about to do, but the rip that pours through the air still makes me suck in a harsh breath.

I’m not wearing a bra. My breasts pop out. Rafaele’s gaze drops to them. He pinches one nipple hard enough to sting. Pain tangles with pleasure. My boobs are achy, begging to be touched and sucked and fucked. When he moves to the other, cupping it completely with his palm, I moan.

Something cruel pierces through his expression. He removes his palm and meets my eyes. Darkness flickers on the edges of his gaze.

“On your knees.”

Sparks run straight to my clit. I go down inelegantly, nearly tipping over, but he stops me from falling with a fist in my hair. I gasp from the harsh pull on my strands, from the way he forces my head back so that I’m looking up at him.

Possession swirls inside the dark-blue waters of his eyes. One hand still in my hair, he undoes his belt and pulls it out of the loops. He throws it to the ground, the buckle clanking against the marble floor.