Page 41 of Her Soul to Own

And fuck me, I just might.

“You’re not scared?”

“No,” she answers.

“Maybe you should be.”

I squeeze her throat, though not hard. Her eyes go glassy from the tears blooming in them, but her gaze never wavers.

She stares at me like I’m a puzzle she plans to solve, even if it kills her. And I don’t let go.

“I think you’re just enjoying yourself,” Lyra bites her lower lip despite the pain my hold must be causing, and it earns a low growl from me, “considering the view.”

I still haven’t let go of her neck—her delicate, tempting neck that fits too perfectly in my hand. My grip must be starting to bruise now. I know it’ll leave a mark. Iwantit to. From the wicked glint in her eyes, I can tell she wants it too.

She’s watching me like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing. Her gaze is locked on mine, dark and electric. Her fingers, light and teasing, begin to trace slow patterns across my chest, dragging over skin that’s already burning beneath her touch. My chest rises and falls in jagged waves, more beast than man as I fight the urge to pin her down and wreck every inch of her.

Then she lifts her other hand, still holding the paintbrush.

She doesn’t break eye contact.

That brush touches my stomach, soft as breath, and starts to move downward. It moves slowly and carefully, like she’s painting possession one inch at a time. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows I’m going to snap if she keeps dragging that thing lower.

She smiles.

And keeps going.

Until she reaches my cock. I glance down at the contact on instinct and breathe through my nose, trying to contain myself. But my body’s betraying me because I’m hard like a rock. I’m so fucking turned on that I could bend her over and fuck her brains out right now.

Using the back of the fucking paintbrush, she traces along the length of my cock with deliberate slowness, like she’s committing every inch to memory. The brush is barely there, more tease than contact, but it sends a jolt through me that’s so sharp, I have to bite down on a groan.

And then she starts circling the tip.

She makes lazy, sensual loops with the paintbrush like she’s drawing invisible symbols designed to wreck me from theoutside in. I shut my eyes so tightly that I see stars behind them, flashes of white against the darkness, but I still don’t let go of her. My hand tightens slightly around her neck to remind us both of who’s still in control. But I feel it slipping.

It feels so fucking good. Too good.

Every nerve in my body is tuned to her. The slow drag of that paintbrush, the warmth of her breath as she watches me unravel, and the soft, wicked hum in her throat that tells me she’s enjoying every second of this power play. And she hasn’t even touched me with her body yet.

“Oh, Mr. Creed, do you like this? Who knew you were a dirty little boy?” she purrs suddenly, breaking the lull between us. God, that soft voice of hers. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

I finally open my eyes and see her smiling at me.

I lean down and whisper in her ear, “You’re about to be a dirty little girl.”

Before she can react, I snatch the paintbrush from her hands and fling it across the room. It lands with a soft thud somewhere in the room, but I don’t spare it a thought because all of me is locked onher.

I grind into her soft body and groan. I’m so hard that I can no longer control my own actions.

With a quick, fluid motion, I lift her off the ground effortlessly. Her legs wrap around my waist instantly and instinctively, like she’s been waiting for this moment since the second we met. Her body molds against mine perfectly, hot, supple, and electric.

“Put me against the window,” she commands, her voice low and breathless, more demand than request.

Ishouldtease her for that. I should pin her to the wall, make her wait, make her beg. But my patience is hanging by athread, and her voice cuts through every ounce of discipline I’ve got left. I’m too horny to tease or protest.

Three strides. That’s all it takes.

I press her against the tall window, which is framed with narrow iron railings. I don’t care why they’re there because they work in my favor. She grips the bars above her head—her fingers clenching tightly—lifting her chest and baring her body in a way that nearly undoes me.

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