Page 126 of Black Castle

There is no point in lying. He is not stupid.

“He did.” The confession barely leaves her lips before his eyes darken with something lethal.

“How many times?” he demands, voice razor-sharp, nose slightly flaring. He has her face locked in his hand, forcing her to stare deep into his eyes, to see the storm brought about by her confession.

“I can’t r-remember.” She really has no idea why he wants them to go down this road. Why irritate himself with numbers when the simple fact that they got intimate angers him this much? Is he purposely trying to make himself enraged?

“I need a fucking number, damn it!” he growls, his grip on her jaw bruising. “So, put your pretty head to use and start thinking!”

She can feel it, his nails starting to crack open a skin on her face. And she can feel it, the burn, the pain. Her mind spirals, thinking back to her moments with Ian. She recalls that they always had sex at his house. It only happened once in his classroom after school. In the two months they became official, she visited his house eleven times. And they always had sex. So eleven at his house and one at school.

Twelve. They had sex twelve times.

“Answer me!”

“Twelve,” she splutters. “Twelve times.”

There is a moment of stillness, just the sound of her unsteady breaths tangling with his heavy pants and the gentle tick of the clock in the background.

Then she feels the emptiness of his absence, the coldness that comes when his warm body is no longer pressed against hers.

When she glances behind her, he has leaned back to his height, walking away.

“Stand,” he says, his voice leaving no room for protest. Not that she has any intention of protesting.

Her spine nearly cramps up when she rises to her height. And even if it does, she won’t wonder why. She has been bent over that desk for at least fifteen minutes.

“Vivienne.” Her name sounds rough on his tongue, yet exotic, laced with something sinful, and it makes her think of sex.

“Yes?”

Her eyes follow his movements. He walks to the dresser, pulls open a drawer, and searches around until he finds a hairband. Then he turns to face her, his hand lifted as he slowly gathers his white locks in his hands.

“I am a very possessive man.” He begins slowly as he rolls the hair into a messy bun. “When something is mine, I usually prefer it if no one else looks at it, touches it, or even thinks of possessing it.”

A lump forms in her throat and she swallows. She watches with anticipation as he begins to work on his buttons, his dark eyes pinning her down, daring her to blink or look away.

“And that time in Russia when I marked you as mine.” He peels off his shirt, revealing taut muscles beneath pale skin. “Maybe I did a terrible job at telling you what that means. And I guess that’s on me. But that is about to change. How? You might ask. Well, I can’t go around wiping every man that has ever fucked you off the face of the earth. That’s too much work no matter how exciting it sounds. So here is what we are going to do.” He takes off his pants, leaving him in his boxers, which are also gone in a second. And Vivienne would be damned to hell if she tears her gaze away from his cock which is as hard as she imagined it to be.

“Get on,” he commands, nodding at the large bed.

Slowly, Vivienne lifts one foot after the other, her pulse racing in her ears until she is on the bed, on her knees.

And no matter how hard she tries to keep her gaze on his wickedly handsome face, it keeps moving to his cock. And the thought of the way he always fucks her so rough and so hard, and the memories of her squeezing around his length and begging for more, causes a rush of fire to her already dripping core.

“I would rather you be on all fours, ladybird,” he says as he crosses the room to her.

Without protesting, she sits back up, turns around on her knees until her hands are planted on the soft bed, back arched, ass in the air.

The bed dips in response to his weight as he climbs onto it, a zap of electricity that ends yet again between her legs, weaving through her as he touches her hip only with a brush of his fingers. Her entire body has become attuned to him that every little touch—even if it’s a slap across the face—makes her want to moan.

She glances sideways, watching him, her lips parted when he runs his palm over her ass, the burn from earlier now a phantom heat beneath his touch.

“As expected,” he hums and she whimpers, lashes fluttering, lip caught between her teeth when the pad of his thumb brushes against her throbbing clit.

“Already soaking wet…” Then his dark eyes cut to her.

“All for me.”

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