Page 39 of Dance of Madness

Don’t. Stop. Don't stop.

He leans in close, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as his teeth rake the side of my neck again, sending my mind reeling.

“You’ll have to bemuchmore convincing than that, princess.”

I thrash, but his hold only tightens. Suddenly, his hand is on my ass, sliding over the soft skin of one cheek before it quickly plunges between my thighs. A gurgled, choked cry tears from my lips as his thick, strong fingers stroke over my pussy through the soaked lace of my thong.

Hegroans.

Feral. Animal. Primal.

“Christ,” he growls. “So fucking wet for me. Have you been that desperate for me since the other night, princess?”

I whimper as his fingers slip under the gusset of my panties and yank it aside.

You’ve been dreaming about it, haven’t you.”

“No…”

“Liar.”

His fingers drag between my folds, and my body jolts as I bite back a choked cry.

“You were soaked before I even touched you at Greymoor,” he rasps. “And you’re soaked now. So which is it, princess—are you a masochist, or a slut?”

“Go to hell.”

“Let's go together.”

Two fingers slide into me in one hard thrust, knocking the air from my lungs and making my toes curl inside my shoes.

My body tenses and shivers.

My knees wobble.

Oh…fuck…

The pleasure hits me like a slap—hot, jarring, immediate.

I hate it. Hate that it feels so good. Hate that I’m dripping for the man who chased me, who broke into my bedroom and touched me in my sleep, who just called me a slut and made it sound like a fucking compliment.

Hate that my hips twitch and arch back toward his hand, wanting more.

There’s a sick heat coiling low in my stomach—dark, needy, violent—that doesn’t care about right or wrong. It justwants.

More.

Deeper.

Harder.

Rougher.

But beneath the want is shame, thick and suffocating, rising in my throat like a scream I can’t let out.

I’m disgusting.

Because if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to come.

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