Page 45 of Wicked God
“Olivia.” His tone is serious now. “There’s no pressure. I want to get to know you. The rest, we figure out as we go.”
“I want to be clear about our expectations. Are we just friends? Are we using each other for convenience? What are our boundaries?”
“We’re friends,” he says quietly. His thumbs brush my cheekbones, sending a flutter through my stomach. “And we are lovers. I don’t share, so if you agree to this, you’re mine. In every way that matters. But if you want boundaries, tell me now.”
“I’m good with monogamy and moving in, but if I want you to be honest with me, and if anything changes—promise me you’ll tell me.”
He nods. “I promise. I also want you to say anything. Everything.”
“Even if I think you’re being an arrogant ass?”
“That is, in fact, a requirement.” His eyes spark. “Though I prefer ‘irresistible bastard,’ for the record.”
I laugh, surprised by how light I feel, how easy it is to breathe in this ridiculous, candlelit shrine to us. I let my fingers graze the edge of the ring, still half expecting it to be some costume prop from a play.
But the diamond is cold, and real, and heavier than any promise I’ve ever worn.
“Okay. We’ll try it your way.”
Chapter 21
Olivia
After dinner, we go back to Alexander’s apartment, dizzy from the champagne and anticipation. In the elevator, we stand inches apart—close enough that I can smell his cologne, yet neither of us reaches across that careful gap between us. There’s so much gravity in the silence, I almost have to hold onto the handrail to stay vertical.
When Alex finally closes the door behind us, and the sound echoes in the silence. For a moment, we just stand there, eyes locked. His jaw tightens, the sharp angle of it catching the light, and I can see the pulse in his neck throbbing, fast and uneven, betraying the calm façade.
And then, he snaps.
One second, he’s across the room. Next, he’s pressing me against the mirror by the entryway, his mouth scorching mine.I gasp, laughter tangled with surprise as he traces fire down my throat and along my collarbone, lips urgent—almost desperate. My body answers before my mind can bargain: I arch into him, hands skimming over the elegant lines of his suit, feeling the tension in his shoulders, the tight coil of energy in his chest.
He tastes like champagne and sugar, like hunger. The mirror chills my back but my skin is burning, hypersensitive to every movement—each breath, each shift of his hands as they glide from my waist to my hips, anchoring me in place.
He breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead to mine, both of us gasping. “Tell me to stop,” he begs, voice hoarse as gravel. When I don’t answer, his lips find the edge of my ear. “Or I’m going to fuck you right here, standing up.”
There’s a flicker of me that wants to laugh at how cliché it all suddenly feels, but instead I say, “Don’t you dare stop.”
And he doesn’t.
His hands slide under my skirt, and before I can process what’s happening, he rips my panties clean off. The sound of fabric tearing sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust straight to my core.
“Alex,” I whimper, my voice trembling, my nails digging into his chest as he spreads my thighs wide.
He’s already hard—so hard I can feel the thick ridge of his cock straining against his slacks, pressing into my pussy through the thin fabric of my dress. I’m wet, so wet, and I can tell he knows it by the way his eyes darken, his jaw tightening with barely restrained want.
He doesn’t waste time. He shoves his pants down just enough to free his cock, and I gasp at the sight of it—thick, veiny, and perfect.
Then he turns me around and bends me over the hall table, my hands bracing instinctively on the cold glass. The edge bites into my hips, the shock of it slicing through the cloud of lust, makingeverything sharper, more urgent. His hands are everywhere—splaying my legs further apart, hitching my skirt obscenely high, grabbing my wrists and pulling them behind my back so I’m utterly at his mercy. The press of his body pins me down, and I feel the hard length of his cock dragging against the slick heat between my legs.
“My fiancée.” He lines himself up at my entrance, his tip brushing against my soaked slit, and I’m already writhing, desperate for him to fill me. “My pretty little wife.”
With one brutal, gorgeous motion, he’s inside me, stretching me wide. The sudden fullness wrings a gasp from my lips. His left hand closes over both my wrists, pinning them to the small of my back, while his right comes up to fist in my hair, wrenching my head back. He fucks me hard, fast, relentless, making everything inside me liquefy and clench at once. I moan, and my voice echoes off the marble.
Every thrust drives me forward, knocking the breath out of my chest, but I never want him to stop. I can feel his hand shaking in my hair; I wonder if this is what vulnerability tastes like for him—losing control, letting someone else see the need under all that armor. I want to tell him I see it, that I understand, but all I can do is spread my knees wider, arch my back, and let him claim me.
He’s panting now, his sweat slicking my skin where he presses against me, and he’s close—his thrusts grow erratic, more desperate, and his teeth scrape my shoulder, leaving a crescent of red on my skin.
“Come on, Olivia. Come for me.”
