Page 30 of Vow to Protect
“So neither of us mistake this as anything more than what it is.” I shake the leather dog leash. “This will ensure those hands of yours don’t wander.”
“But then—” Raen darts backward. “You’ll have the upper hand.” Her face blanches.
“I will,” I confirm. “And I won’t touch you unless you give me permission.” Or I break my sanity.
Slowly, her palm descends. The scar glows with a fury of its own. Dark wavy tips tease luscious dark nipples, making my mouth water. Long lengths replace her arm as a shield. “It’s ugly. I know that. I’ll never get rid of it, or the memories. They’re worse than this mess.” She looks down, acknowledging the mark.
“It gives you something no one else has—”Stop fucking talking.
“What’s that?” she asks softly, her lips smooth and glossy.
“A mysterious edge. It makes you hard to forget,” I reply without emotion. Behind my eyes, panic swirls, and my lungs squeeze.
Do not breed hope.
After a silent second of consideration, she obeys. I make a mental note to trash the leash after this secret indiscretion so Tilly never has her innocent hands on something I’ve ruined.
Once Raen’s wrists are carefully secured together, I instruct her to sit on the end of the bed and duck towards her without touching. Except for my lips. They brush over her earlobe. I take a split second to study her face at close range. Pleading green eyes. Such a dainty nose leading to a perfectly shaped cupids bow. She’s not Syrah. Dare I think it, she’s the most inexplicable paradox I’ve ever encountered. We were never meant to meet. Our paths should never have crossed. I guess fate had other plans.
I lift my torso to stand upright, draining my thirst for her with space. With her seated, I get a bird's-eye view of her slender waist carved from golden flesh, silken and pure. Plump breasts and narrow shoulders, with a delicate neck kissed by flowing strands of the richest, darkest lengths. Her sweeping curves and exquisite structure rival even the most expensive car in Kaleb’s old collection.
I pocket my hands when I consider giving, her my dick to play with. I won’t let her have it—I can’t. She moistens her lips and my willpower unravels.
“You understand this doesn't change a thing. When your documents arrive, you’ll leave Dublin and never come back?”
I back up, witnessing a flare of something undiscovered behind her eyes before she nods once. “I’ll never come back here. This city is dead to me.”
“Good. Now, spread your legs,” I command. I’m not ready for another woman to worship or tease me with dirty strokes and licks. Nor am I ready to bury myself inside her. I’ll test my boundaries and give her something in return.
Tentatively, Raen widens her knees. After a quick glimpse of pale fabric between her legs, my throat bobs. I catch sight of the darker shade on her panties. She’s ready for me.
Blood gushes to my dick like this is the moment when it plunges into the forbidden. I won’t let that happen. I’m not heartless. What man would take advantage of a broken woman. Hypocritical asshole.
I count her breaths, fast, then slow. Her focus scrutinises my movements as I tug off my t-shirt and kick out of my track shoes. When my track pants puddle at my ankles, she whimpers. It’s not unusual, given the hard-on laying thick in my boxer briefs, but that simple sign of her arousal is like a Spitfire soaring through a cloudless blue sky leaving a bold streak. It’s a welcomed tone to my sexual hibernation.
I’ve stripped down. My pulsating dick bounces against my stomach as I stride to the armchair, turn and sink down. Raen gasps. A soft furrow of confusion creases her brow. Immediate distance is mandatory, for her sake, as much as mine. I can’t be gentle when I’m losing myself to the sensation of lust.
Enveloping my solid shaft in my palm, I start off slowly. Base to tip, to base. Repeat. It’s such a simple thing for a man to do. Carnal and perfunctory for many. So why do I feel like a fucking traitor to my own needs?
My brown eyes meet her greens. A grunt of satisfaction breaks free. I’m turned on by this, coiled and on fire. It’s purely visual with the sensory pleasure all my own. It’s my hand fisting my dick and her body heating like a squall of embers.
Her jaw lowers as her lungs expand. That tight body of hers is primed to fuck. Heels lift so her toes press into the wooden floor, and her shoulders pull back further.
“Let me help you.” She rocks forward, ready to stand.
“Stay there,” I instruct, focusing on her swaying breasts.
The throb building in my dick is excruciating. A glisten of pre-cum bleeds out my crime.
“Why won’t you let me touch you?” She pants and strains to stay still. “This is torture.”
My strokes quicken, tighter and harder. “Beg me,” I snap, swept up in the swell of my erection and months of deprivation. She leaps up, yanking her wrists for freedom. “Get back on the bed,” I snarl. “And don’t come any closer.” If she breaches my invisible border, I’ll fucking ruin the both of us.
“Brett,” she pleads while her entire body shakes as she lowers to sitting.
I’m not ready for lies and affection, but this, watching her squirm with anticipation, watching her watch me stroke myself, is fucking atomic.
In a fleeting state of bemusement, I implore pain to overshadow the furnace of desire scorching in my core. My brutal grip bruises, and my movements turn erratic. Her head tips back so her ample breasts lift, and her nipples jut out like she’s willing herself closer.
