Page 22 of Ruthless Redemption

“I guess so.” His arms swoop around my waist, lifting me off the floor. I gasp, not only at the abrupt movement but the vacuum of pleasure, as he carries me like a rag doll, backtracking me across the room.

I don’t protest. Don’t speak. Don’t fight.

I take another strategy, letting him think he’s in control while I eagerly plan my victory.

He places me down on the table, the wall of glass behind him reflecting what a voyeur might consider a loving moment but instead is a power play.

“Spread your legs,” he demands.

“Spread my legs?” I ask slowly, taking my time, splaying my hands on the polished wood behind me, the coat gaping to expose my middle, my breasts on display.

He bites his lower lip, the hunger increasing in his eyes. He’s starved for me. Ravenous. “Spread those beautiful fucking legs, Layla. Or I’ll spread them for you.”

“No, you won’t.”

He’s not in charge here. Neither am I. But he doesn’t need to know that.

His nostrils flare. He won’t force me. Won’t hurt me. Not physically. He prefers to do it mentally,emotionally, or he’d get someone else to do his dirty work.

He braces his hands on either side of my hips, looming close. “Do you want me to beg? Is that it? Do you need to hear how much I want to make this up to you?”

It’s too late for that.

What I want is his agony. His torture.

Slowly, I spread my legs, giving him more room between my thighs. He acknowledges the feigned acquiescence with the slightest clench of his jaw. He thinks he’s winning. Maybe he is.

“Allevia la mia sofferenza, amore mio, perché non posso stare senza di te.”

“More lies?” I ask. “Speaking in another language doesn’t make your words less deceptive.”

“There’s no more lies. I can promise you that.”

I ignore the clench of my heart, the weak organ demanding my submission.

He places his hands on my knees, gradually sliding his palms higher and higher, making my core throb with the promise of pleasure.

He’s so close, those hard eyes mere inches from mine. But he doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t attempt to make the connection affectionate. He’s smart enough to know I’d never allow that tenderness.

I hold my breath as his touch climbs higher, approaching my sex for a second round of temptation.

He doesn’t quit staring at me while those fingers skim the sensitive skin at the apex of my thighs. He doesn’t even blink when his thumbs reach my folds to part my flesh.

I bite the inside of my lip, refusing to show appreciation for the burst of tingles. But there’s definitely a burst. After three days of unwavering heartache, the suffering keeping me bedridden, this indulgent thrill is an undeniable counterpart.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you,” he promises.

I deflect the agony of his vow with a sinister smile. “Then I guess I need to ensure you don’t have much longer to live.”

He grins, eyes blazing, a dimple teasing.

God, I wish he wasn’t so damn gorgeous.

“You underestimate my dedication.” He circles his thumb at my entrance. The slightest movement. The harshest tease. “My devotion would only increase in the afterlife. What else would my spirit want to do other than adore you?”

My pulse falters.

I clench my teeth and remind myself how I got here. That the pleasure is only intense due to the preceding pain.

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