Page 30 of Breaking Isolde
I kiss her again, this time slower, more deliberate. She resists at first, then gives in and kisses back, her tongue darting against mine. She bites, but not hard enough to break skin.
I slide my hand from her throat to her chest, dragging the pajamas open further, exposing the curve of one breast. The nipple is hard, peaked in the cold, and I run my thumb over it, pinching just enough to make her gasp.
She jerks her head away, breaking the kiss. “For the record, I don’t want this,” she hisses.
“Maybe that’s what your conscious is saying,” I admit. “But you could have screamed any number of times and you didn’t. Just look at you. Beautiful and desperate for me to fill you like the good little one you are.”
She doesn’t answer, just glares, but her breathing tells the real story. Fast, shallow, hungry.
“So I’ll ask you this once, Isolde. Do you want me to stop?”
She won’t answer. Refuses to look at me, but a whine escapes her lips and the tiny buck of her hips is answer enough.
I shift, grinding harder, and her eyes roll back for a split second before she recovers. Her legs spread wider, and I feel her thigh clench around mine.
She tries to fight again, but this time her effort is half-hearted. She’s shaking, but it’s not from fear.
I lean down and bite her earlobe, then whisper, “You can’t win. Not against me.”
I let go of her wrists and grab her thighs, forcing them apart until her knees are up and wide. I keep grinding, harder, until she’s moaning under her breath, the sound fighting its way out despite her best effort.
Her hands are free now, but she doesn’t claw at me. She grips the sheets instead, knuckles white, arms rigid. Every muscle in her body is straining, caught between wanting to escape and wanting more.
I slow down, teasing her, making her writhe for it. She tries to hide it, but I see the way her hips tilt, the way she rocks herself up to meet every thrust.
“Still want me to go?” I murmur.
She closes her eyes, jaw clenched. “Go to hell.”
I slide my hand under the waistband of her pajamas, fingers skimming over bare skin. She sucks in a breath, her whole body tensing.
I find her clit, slick and hot, and rub it in circles, gentle at first, then harder. She jerks, tries to close her legs, but I’m stronger. I hold her open and keep going, relentless.
She bites her own lip, but she doesn’t make a sound this time. Not until I slip two fingers inside her, curling them just right, and then she breaks—her breath coming out in a harsh, guttural moan.
I work her, slow and brutal, never letting up on the pressure. She bucks under me, trying to get away, but I hold her fast.
“You want to come,” I whisper. “You want it so fucking bad.”
She shakes her head, but her body betrays her, clenching down around my fingers, hips thrusting up.
I keep going until she’s trembling, until her eyes are wild and unfocused. I can feel her getting close, the way her breath hitches and her thighs quake.
My cock is so hard, throbbing with the need to bury inside her that I’m not convinced I won’t jizz in my own pants, but I need this. I need her to know who she belongs to. Her hands claw the sheets, desperate for purchase.
I watch her face the whole time. The hate, the need, the fury. It’s all there, raw and beautiful.
“Come for me,” I say, voice low and hard. “Now.”
She tries to hold out, but she can’t. Her body arches, heels digging into the bed, and she comes with a broken, half-swallowed cry. The sound is perfect.
She collapses, boneless, every muscle slack.
I pull my hand free and lick it clean, watching her watch me through hooded eyes. Then I kiss her, slow and deep, letting her taste herself on my tongue.
“You’re mine,” I say again, just to make sure she hears it.
She scoffs at me one more time, but there’s no fight in it.
