But then he made a show of clapping his hands, loud enough to snap them both out of it.
When he spoke next his accent was stronger, rougher. “Are you finally ready to come, then? Been waiting on you ages.”
Riley let out a choked laugh-sob.
“You’re awful,” she said softly, eyes closed tight, body strung like a bow.
“Most of the time,” Clark whispered as he finally, finally slid his hand between her legs, his touch light, appraising.
He whistled at what he found. “Riley, you dirty girl.”
If he hadn’t given her two thick fingers at that moment, she might have smothered him with a pillow.
Clark was exactly the same person in bed as he was out of it: cocky and controlling, mocking and self-congratulatory. The difference was, here Riley liked it.
“Your whole body’s blushing.” He remarked casually as his fingers pumped inside her.
Riley reached for her clit, flicking hard and fast, desperate to end this.
“Impatient?” Clark bent his neck to watch their hands working together. “That’s cute.” He brushed his ring finger against where she was already stretched. “You want another?”
Her toes curled, she was close, so close. “I want you to stop talking.”
He chuckled darkly—“Liar.”—and curled three fingers inside her as Riley worked her own hand, fast, unrelenting.
She’d set out to make him her enemy this morning and come up short, but Riley could hate him for this—for how good he made her hurt, the way he drew pleas from her bitten-red lips.
“I hate you,” she told him, low and fervent, as it all crashed down. As she came longer and harder than she ever had in her life. “God, Clark. I hate you so fucking much.” Riley savored the words along with release.
When she finally stopped shaking, Clark groaned, sliding his fingers slowly out of her, bringing all three to his mouth and sucking them clean. With his other hand, he palmed the obscene bulge in his jeans.
He stared down at the sweaty, tumbled mess of her, lingering on the marks he’d made with his mouth. “God, look at you.”
She slid one palm against his tensed abdomen, under the rugby shirt, to trace the lines of muscle that pointed toward his pelvis. “Why are you still wearing all of your clothes?”
When he didn’t seem inclined to stop looking at her long enough to disrobe, Riley pushed his shirt up as far as she could in this position, trying to reveal his bare stomach, his chest. Dark strands dusted from his collarbone to below his naval. Riley wanted to run her mouth all over him until his eyes rolled back in his head.
“Happy now?” His breath came in harsh gasps as he worked himself over his jeans.
“No,” Riley said, tugging at his waistband. “Take your pants off.”
“I’m close,” he warned her as he shoved down his jeans and, with a groan, wrapped his hand around himself.
Because there was no justice in the world, his cock was as gorgeous as the rest of him. Riley blinked, dazed, as he pumped himself over her.
He reached out with his opposite hand to circle one of the sets of teeth marks on her breast with his fingertips. “Let me come on your tits.”
“Yeah, yes,” she sputtered, trying to sit up a little on her elbows. God, she wanted him to. What had he said earlier? Let’s see exactly how much of a mess I can make of you. She’d do anything to make him lose control the way she had.
Riley gorged herself on the way he looked—teeth clenched, neck straining, thrusting into his fist like he couldn’t wait to bring himself off. Had she ever seen anything as sexy as this man?
When he caught her looking at him, Clark sped up his thrusts.
“Oh,” she said, a Cheshire-cat grin spreading across her mouth. “You like being watched.”
His abs tensed as he blushed all the way down his chest.
Riley had just come. Her body was still wrung out, flushed, but, well, wasn’t that interesting. I wonder if . . .
“Who knew”—she held his gaze—“that you were such a slut.”
Clark swore as he splashed come across her chest, already running his hand through it, painting over her nipples and her steadily blooming bruises.
Riley pressed her knees together and struggled to catch her breath. She looked down at her own body. The sight was so deliciously obscene, she already knew she’d come again later thinking about this.
“I’ll, uh, get you a new towel.” Clark hauled himself up, looking a little flustered in the aftermath of his orgasm.
Right. God, she was in a camper, in the middle of a thunderstorm.
She let herself fall back on his sheets, wallowing in the disaster of it all.
Eventually, she’d have to walk back to the inn wearing whatever lingered from the physical remnants of their passion. If that wasn’t cursed, she didn’t know what was.
Riley needed to regain her composure and stat. She’d let this happen. Fine. It wasn’t ideal, but she could handle it. And she needed to because she wasn’t the only one in danger here.
In the end, when Clark took his pleasure, he had looked at her like he was . . . lost. Like Riley was the only thing anchoring him to the earth. And she wasn’t. Couldn’t be that. Not for Clark. Not for anyone. She’d never been more sure than she was right now.
Curses didn’t understand the concept of pain or mercy. They were destruction, unrelenting. And she’d made a vow to her family and to herself to meet them in the arena. To break them by whatever means necessary.
Sacrifice. Not just Clark as a forfeit, but herself.
Because she wanted this—the afterglow, beyond. She couldn’t lie to herself anymore. Tonight he’d left marks on more than her body.
Riley wanted Clark. With all his flaws. With hers.
She ignored the knot in her throat. The sudden wave of dizzying nausea.
Curse breaking was more than her job. It was her calling. Her purpose. She didn’t get to quit because it got harder. Because the cost became personal. She couldn’t be good for him. But she could be good at this.
One of her first clients had been a painter who’d lost his muse. They’d tried everything else: charms, cleansing, rituals. Nothing worked.
You’ll have to give up the thing you’re most afraid to lose, she’d said, as kindly as she could.
He hadn’t painted for a year. Said it ached, every day. I’m alive but I feel like I’m dead.
You have to have faith, she’d tried to console him, that sometimes the hard thing, the thing that seems impossible, is the only way out.
It had come back eventually, the muse, the art. Riley had never asked him if it was worth it, the dead year. She’d been too afraid of the answer.
Clark deserved better than her anyway. She hoped that after this he’d find someone who’d never try and hurt him. God knew they’d be less trouble to look after than her.
He came back holding a damp washcloth. His jeans were still undone, sitting low on his hips, and the collar of his shirt was stretched away from his neck. Riley could almost see where she’d touched him, as if he’d walked away from the bed just as marked as her. Dread pooled like iron in her stomach.
The curse had led her to an opportunity she never would have considered on her own, the chance to climb into his bed, to get naked with him. To slink past defenses, leave him armorless.