Page 38 of Scarlet Thorns
Ilona
I’ve been waiting in Room Five for nearly an hour, and the anticipation is killing me.
Tonight feels different. I feel different. The steam from my shower still clings to the air, mixing with the familiar scent of sandalwood and roses that makes this space feel like a sanctuary. But I’m not here for sanctuary anymore. I’m here for him.
For TMG. The man I’ve thought about every night since my first time here, my fingers finding myself in the darkness while imagining his hands, his mouth, his body claiming mine.
Stanley is gone. Really, truly gone this time. And with him went the last thread connecting me to the woman who apologized for taking up space, who minimized her own pain to make others comfortable. That woman died in a parking lot outside this very building, buried under the weight of accusations and dismissed suffering.
The woman sitting here now— draped in nothing but a silk robe that whispers against my bare skin— wants something different. Something real. Something that burns away everything else until only truth remains.
I hear the soft rush of running water from the adjoining bathroom, and my pulse spikes. He’s here. My mysterious stranger who sees through masks and pretense to something raw and honest underneath.
When the door opens, my breath catches the way it always does. His huge shoulders dwarf the doorway, towel riding low on his hips, water still beading on bronze skin that I want to scoop up with my tongue. The candlelight plays across muscles thatare practically begging to be explored by fingertips, illuminating tattoos that mark him as dangerous in ways that should terrify me.
But fear is the last thing I feel as his eyes find mine through the leather mask.
Tonight, I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to confess my fears or seek comfort for wounds I can’t name. Tonight, I want to feel alive in the most fundamental way possible.
I stand slowly, deliberately, every movement designed to drive him to the edge of control. His gaze follows the motion silently, pupils dilating with hunger that makes my skin flush hot.
The robe slides from my shoulders like liquid silk, pooling at my feet in a whisper of fabric against skin. I’m completely naked now, exposed in the flickering candlelight, and the vulnerability should make me self-conscious. Instead, it makes me powerful.
The way he looks at me— like I’m the only woman who’s ever existed, like my body is art worth studying— sends molten heat pooling between my thighs. I’m already slick with arousal, my nipples peaked and aching for his touch.
His erection strains against the terry cloth towel, thick and demanding, and the sight makes my mouth water with need. I’ve never wanted to taste a man the way I want to taste him. Never craved the weight and heat of someone filling my mouth until I can’t think or breathe or exist as anything but sensation.
“I want you,” I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them. “I want all of you.”
He doesn’t speak— he never does— but the way his breathing changes tells me everything. Shallow, controlled, like he’s fighting a war between restraint and desire.
I cross the space between us with slow, measured steps, my bare feet silent on plush carpet. When I reach him, I placemy palm flat against his chest, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart beneath bronze skin marked with ink and scars.
“Touch me,” I breathe against his throat, tasting salt and something uniquely masculine. “Please.”
His control snaps like a cable under too much tension.
His hands find my waist, fingers digging into soft flesh as he lifts me effortlessly. My legs wrap around his hips instinctively, the heat of his arousal pressing against my slick center through the towel. The friction makes me gasp, head falling back as sparks of pleasure shoot through my core.
He carries me to the velvet sofa, setting me down with care before his mouth crashes against mine. The kiss is everything our previous encounters promised— hungry, desperate, consuming. His tongue slides against mine in a rhythm that mimics what I want him to do to my body, and I moan into his mouth like a woman starving.
When he breaks away, we’re both breathing hard. His eyes burn with intensity that makes my knees weak, and I reach for the towel around his waist with trembling fingers.
“Yes,” he growls, the single word rough with need.
The terry cloth falls away, and I finally see him completely. He’s magnificent— long and thick and perfect, pre-cum glistening at the throbbing head. My hand wraps around his length almost of its own accord, stroking from base to tip with movements that make his hips jerk forward.
He’s so hard, so hot in my palm, and the low groan that escapes his throat when I squeeze gently makes my pussy clench with need. I want him inside me. Want to feel this beautiful cock stretching me open, claiming me in ways I’ve never been claimed.
His hands find my breasts, palms rough against sensitive skin as he kneads and caresses. When his mouth follows,sucking one tight nipple between his lips, I arch off the sofa with a cry that echoes through the room.
“Oh God,” I gasp as his tongue swirls around the hardened bud, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to my clit. “Don’t stop.”
He lavishes attention on both breasts until I’m writhing beneath him, my hands fisted in his dark hair as I hold him against me. Every pull of his mouth, every scrape of his teeth, every soothing swipe of his tongue drives me higher toward a precipice I’m desperate to fall from.
When his hand slides between my thighs, finding me wet and ready, we both groan at the contact. His fingers part my slick folds, circling my swollen clit with just enough pressure to make me see stars.
“Wet,” he murmurs against my breast, voice thick with arousal. “So fucking wet for me.”
