Twisted Together (Monsters in the Dark #3)(31)

Lifting me up with one arm, he positioned himself closer, spreading my folds with the thickness of his cock. With eyes locked, we froze at the temptation of sex. The room dripped with anticipation.

I bit my lip as he pushed forward, stretching, taking.

He stopped halfway. His eyes glittered, looking at where we joined. The basest of human acts, the rawest form of love.

Then the slowness and time for words disappeared as Q pulled back and with his face tightly controlled thrust hard.

One savage thrust filled me to the brim and something unlocked inside. The bricks of my tower scattered further as confidence filtered through my previous dread.

Tears sprang to my eyes—not because of pain or weakness but because of pure paradisiac joy.

Joy of being taken. Joy of belonging.

Q reeled off oaths under his breath, jerking me closer, pressing deeper.

I went floppy in his arms, focused only on him. His pelvic bone pressed against mine, rubbing my clit so perfectly an orgasm sparked from nowhere.

No build-up. No warning.

“Oh, God.” I grabbed his neck, needing something to hold onto while the cyclone of pleasure built in my core. Q groaned as he f*cked me. Hard and strong and delicious.

My * squeezed, intent on one thing, leaving me floundering.

Q’s hands latched onto my hips, holding me firm, allowing him to thrust harder.

My breasts bounced as my body rocked on the wood. I leaned backward, bracing myself against the wall as he pulled my legs to wrap around his body.

The moment my legs locked around him, he surged upward. His cock hit places that acted as a trigger to the fiercest cyclone in history.

Tightening, swirling, building, sparking.

My mouth parted as a ragged moan erupted from my lungs.

“Fuck, yes,” Q yelled, his fingernails digging into flesh. He drove harder, stroking my * until every inch of me thrummed like an entire chorus of typhoons.

There was no pain.

Nothing but sweet, sweet pleasure.

I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to stop it.

I didn’t ask permission or delay.

I gave myself over to the unravelling storm inside.

I came.

Every band of release made me shudder in his arms, and I was only vaguely aware of the world outside.

Q f*cked harder, growling louder.

I didn’t care about anything but the intense waves of pleasure wringing me dry.

“Goddammit, Tess. Fuck it. Take me.” His voice was far away. I became nothing more than a vessel for him to come into. My soul was elsewhere, living in prolonged bliss. My thoughts were dust and ash.

Pain.

A flash of horrendous pain.

My eyes flew open. The wondrous storm switched to angry squalls—lashing me with darkness and hell.

I was ice cold.

I was terrified.

Q planted both hands on the sideboard, driving into me almost possessed. All I could focus on was the blooming red handprint on my thigh where he’d spanked me.

And then he came.

Rhythmic spurts, shuddering muscles, lust so violent it looked otherworldly on his anger-flushed face.

He’d hit me to come.

He’d needed to punish me to find release.

He took his pleasure from my pain.

The bricks I’d tried so hard to destroy lurched into formation. The foundation of the tower went from rubble to stacked in a blink.

My tower wanted to claim me again. It wanted to save me.

The pain made me want to hide.

With a war-cry, I smashed the cylindrical prison and prayed with everything I had left that I was strong enough.

Strong enough to survive.

Strong enough to survive Q.





Stroke me, provoke me, adore me, I implore thee, take all of me, ensnare me, play me to your tune



The release wasn’t enough.

It’d been too quick, too tame.

Even as I’d driven deep inside Tess, coming hard and fast, I knew it wouldn’t sate me for long.

It wouldn’t sate me because it’d been normal. Fucking vanilla. Sex wasn’t what gave me pleasure and got me off. It was the dominance—the role-play, the mind games, the linking of masculine and feminine through bodily control.

The one strike I’d delivered had been enough to send me over the edge, but not enough to stop the churning in my gut for more. I needed worse. I needed dirty.

I sighed, throwing an arm over my eyes.

Tess was still in the bathroom. She’d been in there for at least forty minutes.

What the f*ck was she doing?

My eyes travelled around the suite. From the bedroom, I could see most of the lounge and part of the drawing room where dinner and business meetings were concluded. Each room took up a colossal amount of space with huge windows bordering the view of the seaside, colourful umbrellas, and lobster-red sunbathers.

I threw myself back onto the covers, staring at the ceiling. The suite consisted of soothing shades of white: eggshell, alabaster, and chalk. I knew because the hotel stupidly provided a decoration guide complete with drapery design, carpet blends, and colour swatches.

As if I’d come here for f*cking decorating advice.

I’d flicked through the magazine after rolling it up into a tube, testing it as a spanking device. I’d discarded it because the slick glossy pages were too heavy—it would bruise. And although I wanted Tess to pant and a few tears to be shed, I also hated the thought of marking her. Which twisted my gut with perplexity.