Page 112 of Bride By Mistake
He gently rubbed his face against her breasts, then his mouth closed hotly over her nipple and she gasped. He teased it gently with his tongue and teeth, and then sucked hard. She arched beneath him as a deep shudder rippled through her. He continued suckling and teasing until she was squirming and writhing under him.
He slid his hand down her belly, between her legs where she ached for him.
“No,” she said, and with every bit of self-control she could muster, she pulled away.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she panted. “My turn.”
She pushed back the covers, baring him to her gaze in the candlelight, her big, golden warrior.
She ran her fingertips lightly over his chest, learning his texture, the firm flesh, the hard muscles, exploring the small nubs of his flat male nipples. His body was hard and hot, and she loved the feel of it, the feel of him.
She bent and flickered her tongue over his tiny, hard nipples, tasting salt and a sharp, masculine flavor that was all Luke. She loved the taste of him. She teased his nipples as he’d teased her, nibbling and gently biting them, scraping her teeth over their tips, and she smiled as he shivered and arched, as she had.
She smoothed her palms over the bands of hard muscle across his belly and scratched lightly like a cat down the line of dark hair arrowing from his belly to his groin.
Her hands wandered lower, and feeling bold, she ran one finger lightly along the hardened length of him. He shuddered under her touch. She caressed the sensitive tip, tracing one fingertip gently over the tiny bead of liquid, smoothing it over him. The hot, satiny feel of him entranced her, and her palm tightened around him.
“Witch,” he groaned, but his eyes were half closed with pleasure, and he shuddered in a way she recognized. Emboldened by his obvious pleasure, she wrapped her whole hand around him and squeezed.
“Enough.” His body was hard trembling with barely controlled need. “Do you want me to explode?”
He slid his hands between her thighs. “Now,” he muttered.
“Yes, now, my love.”
His eyes flew open, but she had not the courage to repeat it. “Now.” She parted her legs and took him into her, and with a moan, he thrust and thrust, his gaze locked on hers, unbroken, until she shattered in his arms and he shattered with her.
The soles of his feet burned, his vitals were molten agony, every part of his body screamed with silent pain, and until the blade cut into him he hadn’t thought it was possible to feel any more pain.
But it was.
The blade sliced into his flesh in a cold, burning arc, slow and painstaking in its precision.
He stiffened, biting down hard on the inside of his mouth to stop himself from screaming. He’d rather die than scream.
Screaming was the point of the exercise.
Screaming and information.
“I do like to mix business with pleasure,” La Cuchilla had murmured in his ear. And made another slice in Luke’s flesh.
His body shook with the effort not to scream. He bit down on his tongue, and his mouth filled with blood.
“Beautiful.” La Cuchilla took a handful of blackened salt and slowly, thoroughly massaged it into the cut, packing it under each leaf of flesh. Forming the petals.
Luke arched and shuddered against the sting of the salt.
“Ahh, you fight it, but you will love the effect, truly.” La Cuchilla sat back and waited until the pain dulled to an almost bearable level, then smiled into his eyes and sliced again…
Luke screamed.
Panting, sweating, and rigid with fear, he surfaced from the darkness, his shoulder on fire, his arms and legs flailing, shamed, dirty, and desperate to escape.
“Luke, Luke, it’s all right,” a soft voice called in his ear. “It’s just a dream. You’re safe.”
He thrashed around, fighting nameless things, his body afire. He turned and there, lit by a glow of candlelight, he saw her, pale and lovely, her eyes clear and golden, shining with honesty and love like a beacon in the night.
