Page 39 of Dimitri
Either determined to prove he doesn’t scare me or that I’m downright stupid, I pop open my eyes at Dimitri’s request. The visual is ten times better than the one in my head. I don’t know where to look first—at the thick rippling of muscles in his midsection or the sturdy thighs holding up the incredibly mouthwatering package. Perhaps I should start at his bulging biceps before finishing at a hardness more than a spark of attraction would be required to instigate?
His cock is thick and hard, meaning the stretchy material of his trunks is being put through the ultimate durability test. They’re a quality brand, however they look seconds from fraying under the pressure of his pulsating rod of flesh.
My eyes slowly float up to Dimitri’s face when he says, “All it takes is a few seconds of distraction andpoof, your entire existence is over.” I’m confused as to what he means until I attempt to stop him from uncinching the belt holding my dressing gown close to my body. My hands are bound above my head, secured by a set of cuffs that have been used often enough to leave notches in the bedposts.
“Let me go.” Just the thought of any woman being cuffed to his bed has my voice the most unhinged it’s ever been. It’s fueled more by anger than fear, peeved as fuck that even when my life is in danger, jealousy is still my most paramount emotion.
I couldn’t understand Eddie’s anger about me climaxing over another man’s watch, yet here I am getting blistering mad over a man I hardly know playing sex games on the bed I’m resting on.
I’m certifiably insane.
Dimitri’s smile is as white-hot as the surge that bolts through me when he shakes his head. “Not until you say please.”
With his eyes locked on mine, he undoes the knot in my dressing gown cord faster than I can snap my fingers. His chest rises and falls in rhythm to the throb in my throat when he pries open the material. He doesn’t part the seams far enough that my nipples become exposed, but the heat from his hooded-gaze makes it seem as if he did.
The friction his meekest touch causes is unbelievable. It has heat blazing through me, and its fiery response grows in intensity when he glides his index finger through the galley between my breasts. He’s barely touching me, but every inch of my body tightens, anticipating more.Wantingmore.
When his hand stops near my chin, my head naturally slants so I can nuzzle my cheek into his palm. It’s as sticky as the mess between my legs, his body temperature too high to discount.
Dimitri’s body isn’t the only thing warming up. Heat burns at my cheeks, just not all of their redness can be blamed on desire. Some of it is shame. Shame he killed my boyfriend, and I don’t feel the least bit bad about it. Shame his touch should revolt me when it doesn’t. Shame that even after he made me feel as tiny as an ant, I’m on the verge of begging him to touch me.
“Say please, Roxanne,” Dimitri grinds out through clenched teeth. “Say please before I remember you’re the reason my wife is dead, and my daughter is missing. Say please before I remember for every hour of every day thatyouare responsible for everything that has happened.” He locks his eyes with mine. They’re dark and tormented, but oh so beautiful. “Say please before I remember no amount of pleading willeversee me sparing your life. Say please, Roxanne.” He lowers his hand from my cheek to my neck. “Say it now before it’s too late.”
The last of the air in my lungs rushes out with a moan when he grips my throat with enough strength both my clit and my lungs award his aggression with their utmost devotion. They both scream with need, one is just slightly louder than the other.
“Please.”
Chapter Twenty
Dimitri
Although Roxanne’s one word is as breathless as her lungs, and the itch to kill is skittering through my veins begging me to ignore her request, I tamp down the debilitating restlessness I was born with before weakening my grip on her throat.
Her gasps as she fights to fill her lungs with air excites me even more. It’s a genuine need that spreads through me like a wildfire as hot and heavy as the blood feeding my cock. She has so much attitude, so much spit-fire—the very thing Audrey was missing.
My wife’s attitude didn’t live up to her brash hair coloring. She was always the quieter one in the room. She didn’t raise her voice or fight for the top position in the room. As long as it kept her out of the spotlight, she was happy to let anyone take the lead. She could see another woman’s lipstick on the collar of my shirt, smell her perfume on my skin, and she did nothing—not a single fucking thing.
Her inability to fight for me saw me fucking around on her more. I wanted to see her cheeks inflamed with jealousy, for her to tell me she hated me before vowing to kill the woman who dared to slip between our matrimonial sheets.
I wanted to feel needed.
Inevergot that from Audrey.
Not once.
The same can’t be said for Roxanne. She didn’t ask me to stop because she’s sickened at the idea of me touching her. She did it because she’s angry at herself. Even the risk of dying isn’t enough to offset her desire for me. I killed her boyfriend, threatened her family, and told her I’d bury her alive just to hear her screams suffocated by the dirt clogging her lungs, yet she still wants me to fuck her, lick her, kiss her, and claim every single inch of her.
She wants me like my wife never did, but in a way I’ll never be able to fulfill.
I can learn from my past, however I can’t forget it. Fien deserves more than to be set aside for a woman who infuriates me as much as she intrigues me. She’s my daughter, my blood. She comes before anyone—even me.
With that in mind, I snatch my hand away from Roxanne like her scar revolts me as much as she believes before heading for the attached bathroom. The agony between my legs worsens when I flick on the faucet in the freestanding shower. Roxanne’s scent is stronger in confined spaces. It’s why I couldn’t keep a cool head when her breast continually brushed Rocco’s arm during our drive to Hopeton. I could have blamed the bumps in the road for their constant contact, but my fucked-up head refuses to play nice when it’s spiraling out of control. One more brush and I would have popped a bullet between Rocco’s eyes like he hasn’t been my friend for the past two decades.
While waiting for the water pumping out of the showerhead to turn blistering hot, I shred off my all-black trunks before moving to stand in front of the mirror. I briefly consider returning to my room when I take in how red and angry my cock looks. He’s throbbing with need, his thickness solely reliant on the woman handcuffed to my bed.
My lips curve to the side when I recall how easily I distracted Roxanne. Not even the clanging of the cuffs when I removed them from my bedside table shifted her eyes off my body. She dragged them over every inch of me, heating my skin with the same frantic buzz of a tattoo gun.
Her distraction should give my guilt some leeway. Unfortunately, that’s far from the truth. I stopped seeking excuses months ago. I fucked up, I looked away, and now I’m paying for the consequences of my actions.
