Page 87 of Lesson In Forgiveness

“Dead men don’t have much luck.” Tabitha’s voice crackled with nerves. “Grit, please, just—”

“Shush. I want you wet enough to soak the sheets, which means playing with this beautiful body until you relax.” Her skin was warm and so damn soft. He traced the silvered scars running like fractured spiderwebs through her pale flesh reverently. “I love your breasts, Tabitha. Plump and firm with these pretty nipples begging for a kiss.”

She scoffed and squirmed. “They’re small.”

“They were made for me.” Grit demonstrated by covering one with his hand, pleased when it fit perfectly. “Every inch of you has my name on it.” He skimmed a fingertip over her tattoo. “Maybe I should get Loki to ink you up. Here,” he mused, tapping a spot on her upper arm, then dragging his fingertip over to her collarbone. “Here would be good.” Down to the tops of her breasts. “Here and here.” Circling her nipple until the flat areola began to crinkle and peak, he frowned thoughtfully. “Anywhere I damn well want.”

A faint sound, not quite a whimper. He glanced up, noticing her eyes were round and wary. The perfectly cold blue of her irises weren’t quite as wide, her pupils starting to blow. “I should spank your ass, Tabitha, and leave a handprint on one of those luscious cheeks—Loki can tattoo the outline before it fades.”

“Only if you tattoo Tabitha’s Big Boy somewhere on yours,” she retorted swiftly. A shocked yelp escaped her, reflecting in the stunned expression on her face, as his teasing fingertips turned into weapons, attacking her ribs and tickling wherever he could reach. “No! Grit, no! Tickling is—” she squealed, high and loud, “—punishable by death! A horrible, painful death!”

Easing himself partially over her, crowding her space, he continued his merciless assault on her sensitive ribs while bending his head to her throat. Using his short beard—something he was considering keeping—to brush her skin, he set his mouth to work on the pulse throbbing under his tongue.

Nerves eroded by the switch from serious to playful, Tabitha giggled and squirmed. Giggles blossomed into full blown laughter; her legs kicked, her feet drumming on the sheets.

He wished he could kiss her.

A long, slow meeting of lips to gradually turn laughter into a low moan of arousal. A gentle kiss to show her how much she meant to him, how much of a gift her trust was to a man like him.

Her laugh became manic. “Grit, stop, I’m gonna pee!”

“Never really been into watersports,” he mused, nipping a line down the side of her throat. “Not my thing. How badly do you want me to stop, little tiger?”

Tears were forming; she couldn’t catch her breath. “You’ll be… sleeping in… the wet spot.”

Now his laugh boomed. She didn’t know that once he claimed her—today or in a week, a month, a year—they wouldn’t be sleeping for a while. When she was finally his, he intended to ride her again and again until she belonged to him completely. “Short flight, remember? No sleeping required.”

“Damn, that was… my only… leverage.” Wheezing, Tabitha set her hands on his chest and gave a heart-hearted attempt to push him away. When he didn’t budge an inch, awareness filtered into her gaze; he watched her take stock of the situation, how his upper body almost caged her in.

Before she panicked, he lowered his head to her breast, flicking the tip of his tongue over her distended nipple. Instead of tickling her reactive areas, he used his palm to stroke her hip, her thigh, in reassuring sweeps. “Breathe, Tabby.”

“I am.” She swallowed, biting her lip. “I need to be honest here, Grit.”

“Hmm.” He plucked her nipple between his teeth, letting it pop free. “Honesty is always encouraged. Recommended, in fact.”

The small gasp of surprise was immensely satisfying.

“I don’t like foreplay. Can you please just put the condom on and fuck me?”

“No.”

Pale eyebrows drew together in a deadly blonde scowl. Convinced he was about to feel her wrath rain down on him, Grit continued to please himself with her breast, sucking lightly while his hand gravitated to her mound. “This pussy is mine now, Tabitha. She’s tight, all the muscles neglected for years after a decade of abuse. I really don’t think she’ll like it if I ram my cock inside her when she’s dry and unprepared.”

“She’s used to it,” Tabitha muttered, her hand grasping his shoulder.

“Not anymore. Never again. Vaginas are tough, Tabby, but they still bruise and tear and bleed if they’re not treated right.” He switched to her other breast, letting his fingers drift between her legs. “This pussy is going to be worshipped. Revered. Adored. I’m gonna play with her until she’s soft and wet and aching, then stretch her open bit by bit. Inch by inch,” he crooned when she went rigid.

“No. No, just fuck me.” Her small hands fisted, one against his neck, the other on the sheets. Frustration and anxiety smacked into him as though they were his own emotions. “I don’t like this!”

There it was, the plaintive whine he’d been anticipating. Her voice, like her eyes, gave so much away when her emotions were compromised. When she was in absolute control, killing mode? Fuck, he doubted the CIA could crack her.

But burrow beneath the implanted persona and she had nowhere to hide.

Did she think turning this into a fight would make his chain snap? More than likely. He didn’t think she’d been around too many men who’d held themselves back when given the opportunity to fuck a goddamn child. She’d learned that magic words like fuck me gave her back some semblance of control—if she demanded it, then she was no longer the victim.

There were a lot of lessons in her future. Ones she’d accept without too much trouble, and others she’d fight tooth and nail to resist.

Cupping her pussy lightly, he found exactly what he suspected. Flat, dry labia, not even a hint of natural lubrication. Totally unreceptive because her head, heart, and body were so disconnected in an attempt to protect herself, it was a monumental challenge to get them to work in sync again.

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