Page 21 of The Heir
Oh, he likes this? Good. So do I. I force him down further, watching him shift his hips to the side. No doubt his erection is pressing into the cold floor. There's a tiny part of me that wants to see it, but I want to watch him suffer more. Like a benevolent goddess, I release my hold on him, and he twitches.
His beautiful green eyes look up at me, rimmed with tears and those luscious, dark lashes. I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "Please, love. I'm so sorry. You're right. You're always right. I'm a fucking idiot—please, love, please forgive me. Let me touch you."
The sight of him like this, panting on the floor beneath my feet, burns a fire deep in my soul. I can't help but smirk at the powerful man on his knees. "Not yet."
"Soon?" The word ejects itself forcefully from his lips as he starts to tremble. I almost want to let him.
Almost.
"Maybe." Bracing myself on the concrete walls, I slide my foot to his shoulder and push him down again. He falls to his hands and bows low to the floor. Every ragged breath he takes fills me with a sadistic—but also sort of loving?—glee.
"Please, love. Please let me touch you. I swear on my own grave that I'll never keep anything from you again. I want you—I want to beworthyof you, my love. Please. Melody, my wife, my queen. I will slit the throats of yourenemies in front of you. I will gift you their blood. Just let me fucking touch you, please," he whimpers.
"You'll slit their throats? You? No. Wrong." I dig my heel into his shoulder again. "Try again."
"You're right, of course—I'm sorry, love. I will deliver them to you and watch you make another masterpiece. I'll gasp and applaud—I'll adore anything and everything you create. I swear. I promise. Please, Melody, please. Forgive me. I need your touch. I need to touch you. I need… you." He bows deeper and presses his forehead to my other foot. "Please, love."
When he puts his mind to it, he'svery goodat apologizing. I never thought a spoiled, little, rich boy like him would be, but I like to be surprised on occasion.
"Fine. One touch below the knee, not to exceed five seconds." I smile as he snaps his head up to look at me. "Make it count."
He snakes a hand around my ankle and kisses the top of my foot, letting out a contented sigh. "Thank you, my love." Before I know it, both of his hands are working the tight muscles of my calf as his heated breath flutters over my flesh. Liquid heat pools in my core, and I really do want him to do more, but playing with him like this is so muchfun.
Counting the seconds in my head, I watch as he worships me. That's really the only word for it. My husband is groveling on the floor before me, worshipingat my feet. I watch a shiver overtake him and zap down his spine as he kneads the thick muscles of my leg. I happily sigh as he pays special attention to the sore spots where my prison-issue shoes rubbed against my heels. He doesn't massage the blisters, of course, but he ghosts his fingertips over the irritated skin and makes little comforting sounds.
Amendment to the "no touching" agreement: he is allowed to massage me.
"One," I whisper. He yanks his hands back and mumbles his thanks under his breath. "Good boy."
Another shiver runs down his spine, and his pupils blow wide as he looks up at me. His little pink tongue flicks out between his lips. "Thank you, love. Thank you. I swear I'll prove myself to you again."
"I know you will, babe." I reach down and tangle my fingers in his jet black hair. "I know you will."
A knock on the steel door wrenches me from sleep. In an instant, I'm yanked back to the prison. I brace myself for the loud screams, the violent metal-on-metal of cell doors slamming shut, and the infuriating buzz of fluorescent lighting… but it doesn't come.
"Sir?" Roman's hushed tones calm me at once. "Sir, Ella's gone dark."
"Fuck," Dante grunts as he rouses himself from the makeshift pallet on the floor. I didn't force him out of the bed, by the way. He chose to banish himself to the floor until he's back in my good graces (it's working).
"What's that mean?" I ask.
"She isn't on the job. She hasn't returned to any of her known properties. And I don't like the idea of usnotknowing about all of her properties," Roman clears his throat. "We don't know where she is."
"Any highway cameras?" Dante asks as he staggers to his feet. "How long has she been out of sight?"
"No, and about four hours." Roman rubs his temples.
"I don't like that," I stutter out. "Four hours? How far are we from Philly?"
"Six hours, give or take." Roman opens the metal cabinet I've been using as a wardrobe. He pulls out a pair of pants and thick wool socks, along with a black long-sleeve shirt, before throwing the clothes onto the bed. "I don't mean to alarm you both, but we need to be ready to leave at a moment's notice."
Fuck. Wow, okay. Not caring that my husband's right-hand man is standing in our doorway, I shimmy out of my sleep clothes (the ratty shorts and T-shirt I've had for almost a decade) and quickly pull on the new clothes. "What's the plan? Stand our ground?"
"Not this time, love." Dante offers me a sad smile. "We don't know what kind of reinforcements she might have. And I'll be goddamned before I let you die in a Waco reenactment."
"Are we the cult in this scenario?" I grimace and suck my teeth. I don't really like that idea.
"I mean, I wouldn't make a one-to-one comparison—" Dante starts before Roman cuts him off.
