Page 19 of Dark Possession
She trembles.
Her walls tighten around my fingers, and I chuckle darkly against her skin.
“You hate me, don’t you?” I murmur, my voice laced with something wicked, something dangerous. I press deeper, pushing her closer to the edge.
Her breath comes faster now, shallow, uneven. She nods once, quick, desperate.
Liar.
I thrust my fingers again, sharper this time, rougher. Her legs shake, her body betraying her with every ragged breath, every stifled whimper.
“Say it.” My voice is a command, whispered against the curve of her throat.
She gasps, her grip on the dresser tightening. “I hate you,” she breathes, but it sounds like a lie.
I smirk against her neck, dragging my teeth over her skin before biting again, harder this time.
“Then why are you fucking dripping for me?”
She’s close—I can feel it in the way her body clenches around my fingers, in the way her breath shatters into uneven, desperate gasps.
I don’t slow down. I don’t ease up. I push.
My fingers work her mercilessly, curling, pressing, claiming. She’s shaking now, her body betraying every stubborn part of her mind that still wants to resist me.
I sink my teeth into her neck—hard—branding her, letting her feel the sharp edge of my possession as she breaks.
A strangled cry rips from her throat, her body locking up before shuddering violently. Her release crashes through her, raw and unwilling, and I don’t stop until I’ve wrung every last tremor from her. Until she’s boneless in my arms, trembling, spent.
I finally pull my fingers from her, dragging them over her thigh, smearing her wetness against her skin like a mark she can’t wash away. Like proof.
She sags against the dresser, her breath unsteady.
I grip her shoulders, turning her to me. My hand slides up, fingers threading into the damp strands of her hair. She barely flinches, too lost in the lingering effects of what I just did to her.
I lean down, my breath a whisper of heat against her ear.
“Now tell me again…that you hate me.”
She shudders, her hands gripping the wood behind her as if it’ll anchor her to something real.
I release her, stepping back just enough to watch the way her body reacts—to watch the way her thighs press together instinctively, how she still hasn’t caught her breath.
I fix the cuffs of my shirt before I speak again.
“The name.” My voice is rough, unwavering. “Who does your sister owe?”
A single shiver rolls through her, a fleeting aftershock, but my gaze pins her in place.
She swallows hard, her throat bobbing, hesitation thick between us. For a moment, I think she might refuse. Might push back one last time. But then—
She exhales, slow and uneven, and whispers the name. “Koka.”
The name stops me cold.
It’s one of my own men.
CHAPTER SEVEN
