Page 24 of Vow to Corrupt You
He owns me.
Whether I like it or not.
My eyes close for a moment, my chest heaving with each breath. I feel vulnerable and exposed. Just like he wanted me. It stirs up my hatred for him because he gets everything his way, even though he deserves none of it.
“You are so…” he murmurs, licking his bottom lip, devouring the sight of my half-naked body with the kind of predatory hunger in his dark gaze, “fucking pure.”
What an odd compliment. I am fucking… pure. Not gorgeous. Not sexy. Fucking pure. Fucking. He’s fixated on the idea of innocence, I guess. Is it what tipped the scales in his choice of a wife? Rather than going after Valeria? Is my purity my curse?
“Take off my clothes, wicked one.”
His commanding tone makes my breath hitch in my throat. I flick my eyes between his for a moment, hoping to find compassion in his gaze—but that was all in vain. There’s only darkness and desire. I reach for his hand, wanting to remove the gloves first, but he growls darkly.
“Not the gloves.”
What is it about the gloves? I mean, there’s clearly something?
I swallow my rush of fear and nod. He’s towering over me by at least eight inches. His head is bent down as he watches me unbuttoning the jacket of his tuxedo. I slide it off his muscled, toned arms. Then, his shirt, revealing a body that’s been sculpted by the gods themselves. My brows twitch faintly as my gaze lands on his heavily inked torso. I didn’t know he was inked. He doesn’t have any visible tattoos while he’s dressed. But these aren’t just tattoos. They’re a detailed canvas covering numerous scars on his chest and toned abs. I can’t help myself as I trace the marks. His muscles visibly tense as I rake my fingertips down the path made of scars, and the moment I realize what I’ve just done, my body tenses too. I touched him. Touched the scars he’s obviously trying to hide—without his permission. My fingers hover over the marks, unsure whether to pull away or let them stay.
“What are these scars?” I whisper hesitantly. I’m scared I might ask the wrong question, hit the wrong spot, and unleash the beast in him.
“We’re not here to talk.” There goes the low, guttural sound again, which causes my heart to palpitate. “Now, unbuckle my belt and take off my pants,” he commands.
My teeth grit, but I do as he says. I hate this game he’s playing. He wants to exert his control over me because he enjoys having people at his mercy.
I find myself kneeling before him, sliding down his tailored pants. His cock bursts free, springing up right in front of my face. God, he’s so big. I know what comes next. He’ll want to shove it down my throat, and all I can think about is how I will manage to take the entire length. Considering I haven’t done anything like this before, a spike of panic shoots through my core. I glance up at him, a nefarious smirk tugs at his lips.
“You lied to me.” He captures my face in his hand, coaxing my gaze higher. “You are scared.” I am. How could I not be? The man I despise is about to fuck my mouth. The man I am forced to call my husband is going to make me have sex with him.
His thumb pries at my mouth, forcing it to part. Now, he’s invading my mouth with his digit. I tremble, expecting him to force my mouth wide open so his cock can take the place of his thumb. But instead, he bends slightly and, with his thumb still in my mouth, helps me to my feet. Our gazes are locked the entire time. I don’t dare to look away, or perhaps I’m trying to figure out what’s running through his twisted mind. His thumb runs over my lips, first the upper, then the lower.
“Lie down on the bed,” he commands, and the sliver of hope that he might have a human side shatters like a mirror thrown onto a marble floor, bringing seven years of bad luck. Except for me, seven years would be incredible, but my penance will be a lifetime.
Swallowing, I take a few steps backward and position myself on the bed. My white lingerie contrasts against the black silk duvet I feel underneath my elbows as I support myself. Nikos’s jaw clenches, and his eyes darken as they travel the length of my body. Deliberately, he moves closer, resting his hands on the bed on either side of my hips, and trails slow, wet kisses up my belly and cleavage, making every nerve in me tense. He positions himself next to me, supporting his weight on his left arm. His naked body presses against mine; it’s so warm, and yet the feeling raises bone-chilling goosebumps on my skin.
“Are you on the pill?” his voice is laced with that signature growl, and the question makes me flush. I’m not used to talking about… these things.
“No,” I mutter, a heat wave of either embarrassment, or fear, or perhaps both, rushes through my body. “I didn’t need to because… I haven’t…”
“Perfect. That means I’ll be your first, and your last.”
I clear my throat, intimidated by his remark, my body shivering despite the heat coursing through me. “Besides, I figured you’d want an heir from me.”
“No,” he states firmly. “I don’t.”
His answer catches me off guard. I didn’t expect him not to want an heir. Every man in his position wants one, preferably a son, an heir who would take over his empire one day. My brows narrow as I meet his gaze, his eyes flickering with something as painful as it is terrifying.
“I asked because I had a vasectomy, so there’s no need to poison your body with pills,” he adds; his words only deepen my confusion. He must be hellbent on not wanting children if he went through with that. Most men wouldn’t. On the contrary, if they want to avoid pregnancies, they expect women to handle it. But what baffles me most isn’t his vasectomy—it’s the fact that he doesn’t want children at all.
“Why?” The question escapes my mouth before I can stop it.
His head angles slightly, jaw tightens. “I just don’t want to have children. That’s all you need to know.”
Of course, my opinion on the matter wouldn’t count anyway because I’m a woman who is in an arranged marriage.
My body shivers when he nibbles my earlobe, whispering against my ear. “I already told you, we’re not here to talk.” His hot breath sweeps across my neck, making my skin tingle. “Don’t be afraid, wicked one. Anything I do to you tonight will leave you moaning in pleasure. I promise.”
He brings his hand to his mouth, seizing the tip of the leather fabric on his middle finger between his teeth, and slides the gloves off his hand. He slowly rakes his hand down my collarbone, then belly, finally between my thighs, reaching my sensitive bud, and I gasp. He removes the gloves only to touch me down there, but never to touch my face or body. I wonder why? Are his hands ugly, and he doesn’t want me to see? No, it can’t be that. I’m sure his hands are as beautiful as the rest of his perfectly sculpted body. What does he hide beneath the black leather fabric?
