Page 77 of Stolen Harmony
“Working title?” I said, trying for flippant. “Mistakes I Make on Purpose.”
He laughed, genuine and bright, then folded the page back down with surgical care. “Play it for me sometime.”
“Now?” I asked, reckless.
He considered, then shook his head, reaching to take the glass from my hand and set it aside. “No. Not today. I want something simpler.”
“What’s simpler than music?”
“Obedience.”
The word landed in my stomach and detonated. I should have stopped. I should have thrown him out for the arrogance alone. Instead, my pulse climbed a rung higher like it wanted to meet his hand where it had returned to the base of my throat, thumb a suggestion over the place my heartbeat lived.
“You really think you can manage me?” I asked, voice rough.
“I don’t have to,” he said. “You asked me to come.”
Somewhere behind him the radiator ticked, an old building’s heartbeat. Outside, a car alarm coughed and gave up. In here, the world had narrowed to the stretch of air between his mouth and mine.
He kissed me again and the counter bit into my lower backas if to hold me open for it. His hands were everywhere and nowhere, greedy and restrained in the same breath. He catalogued my reactions with the same quiet focus he’d given my apartment, and I hated how easy I made his work.
Victor broke away first, breath hot against my jaw, and set both our glasses down on the counter behind me with a clink that sounded final, like a lock sliding into place. His hands found my hips again, thumbs pressing hard into the muscle there, and for a second all I could do was hold on. I felt the heat of him everywhere, too much even through layers, the thick press of his body and the dangerous, hungry patience that made me want to shake apart.
I barely remembered how we got from the kitchen to the bedroom. Maybe he led me, maybe I followed, but my hands were all over him, shoving his jacket off his shoulders, feeling the sculpted lines beneath his shirt. Victor's body was a surprise—solid and lean, muscle wrapped tight around bone, strength hidden under the expensively tailored suits. He smelled like cologne and whiskey, like ambition and winter, and I wanted to drown in it.
He pushed me down onto the edge of the bed, his palms flat on my chest, and straddled my lap without a hint of hesitation. His eyes went darker, pupils wide, drinking in the way I looked up at him—mouth swollen, breath coming in short, hard bursts. He tugged at my shirt, impatient, knuckles brushing my skin as he pulled it over my head and tossed it aside. Goosebumps rose up my arms, nerves alive everywhere his fingers trailed.
Victor’s hands moved with an awful sort of precision, cataloging scars, tracing the dip of my collarbone, the slope of my ribs, the taut muscle over my stomach. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to my neck, sucking a bruise just below my jaw, teeth scraping until I gasped. His fingers hooked into thewaistband of my jeans, and I arched up without thinking, desperate for more friction, for anything that felt like oblivion.
He stripped me slow, every movement a tease, dragging my jeans down my thighs and then running his palms back up, kneading the flesh as he went. He let his knuckles graze the outline of my cock through my underwear, and the jolt of pleasure made my hips jerk. Already I was half-hard, leaking, wanting him so bad it hurt.
He stood to undress himself, never looking away. His shirt came off first, and I got a real look at him for the first time—the hard lines of his chest, dusted with silver hair, stomach flat but not soft, the sharp cut of muscle over bone that spoke of discipline, not vanity. There was a dark trail leading down from his navel, vanishing into the black waistband of his briefs. When he pushed his slacks down, I caught my breath. He was fucking beautiful in that cold, perfect way.
Victor didn't take his underwear off either. He pressed a palm over his cock and squeezed, showing me just how hard he was for this, for me. The shape of him was unmistakable, thick and outlined in damp fabric, the head already leaking through a dark patch near the waistband. He gave me a look—hungry, assessing, almost amused by how wrecked I already was.
He came back to me, kneeling between my legs and pulling me to the edge of the bed so my thighs spread open for him, the fabric of my own briefs stretched tight over my cock, which was leaking, desperate, aching for friction. He ran a finger along the wet spot, grinning when I bit back a sound. “So fucking eager,” he murmured, the words low and rough. “You want it messy, don't you? Want to make a mess of both of us.”
His hands mapped my body with greedy confidence, tracing the line of my thighs, palming my ass, grinding me up against the heat of his own cock. He pressed our bodies together, cocks rubbing through the thin barrier of our underwear,and it was almost too much. My head dropped back, exposing my throat, and he mouthed along my jaw, biting, licking, marking me like I belonged to him.
Victor's hands pushed up under the waistband of my briefs, cupping my ass, fingers slipping between my cheeks and teasing the sensitive skin. He didn't go any further—just enough pressure to make me ache, to make my hole clench around nothing, wanting more than I could ever admit out loud. His breath was hot against my ear, his cock grinding against mine, both of us leaking pre-come, soaking the fabric.
“Look at you,” he whispered, voice gone hoarse, “so needy. You want to be ruined, don't you? Want me to take you apart piece by piece.”
“Please,” I said, the word breaking free before I could stop it. It sounded pathetic and perfect, the exact kind of surrender he wanted from me. He pressed his thumb to my lips, smearing spit across them, and then slid it into my mouth. I sucked on it, desperate for something to do with my hands, my mouth, my shame.
He watched me with sharp, calculating eyes, and every time I whimpered, every time my hips jerked up for more friction, he rewarded me with a rougher grind, a sharper bite to my throat or shoulder. My cock was leaking so much that the front of my briefs was soaked, the wet spot spreading between us where our cocks slid together.
Victor slid down my body, kissing, biting, leaving marks everywhere he could reach. He mouthed over my chest, teeth grazing my nipples, tongue flicking until I gasped and arched into him. His hands roamed lower, tracing the ridge of my hipbones, fingers slipping just under the edge of my briefs, but never quite pulling them down.
His teeth sank into the swell of my chest, just below my nipple, and I flinched at the sting—thenarched for more. The pleasure-pain hit something old and hungry inside me. He worked his mouth down, tongue following the line of each bruise he left behind, slow and deliberate, as if he was signing his name in marks only we would ever see.
“Keep squirming like that, Rowan,” Victor murmured, mouth pressed against my stomach, breath hot over my skin. “I want to see how far you’ll bend for me.” He nipped the hollow above my hipbone, then bit down hard enough to make me gasp, hands pinning my thighs wide. I couldn’t help it—my cock jerked, leaking more against the damp front of my briefs.
He slid his hands up, catching my wrists, pinning them above my head in one strong grip. His palm pressed me into the mattress. “Keep them there,” he ordered, voice silk over gravel. “Don’t fucking move unless I tell you to.” The command sent a shiver down my spine. I nodded, heart hammering.
He sat back, drinking me in—sprawled out, wrists pinned, chest marked, breath coming in ragged bursts. “You look like a fucking mess already. “
“I want you to ruin me.” I managed, voice hoarse.
