Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(45)

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I want new clothes,” I tell him. “You can add it to my father’s bill, right?”

I expect a fight out of him. What I don’t expect is the booming laughter and an easy smile that transforms his face. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him so unguarded, and it knocks me off balance.

“Yes, we can add it to his bill,” he says. “Now come here.”

I rock back off my knees and stand, moving toward him with an acute awareness of his every breath. He looks tired but calm. Sky blue eyes warm me like the sun, and strong, steady hands wrap me in comfort as he draws me closer.

“I like you like this,” he murmurs.

“Like what?”

His eyes carve a path over my body. The body I have only ever hated. And even if I feel at home in his arms, I can’t feel comfortable. I have so many doubts about what he sees when he looks at me this way. Is he delusional or am I?

He tips my chin up with his fingers, his voice firm but gentle. “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop thinking, zvezda,” he implores. “For once, believe me when I tell you that you are beautiful in every way. Yes?”

“Okay,” I lie.

His breath blows over my neck, and he kisses the place where my pulse beats for him. “It would be easier if you hated me.”

I let my face rest against his warm chest, feeling his heart beat too. “You’re going to ruin me, aren’t you?”

“I thought I already had.”

We are both quiet then. He chooses not to relieve my fears, and I choose not to acknowledge them. He is right that it would be easier if I hated him. I should hate him for everything he’s done. He can’t let me go, and I can’t make him.

His lips find the hollow of my throat, and when he kisses me, fire licks along my skin. I return the favor by rising on my toes to taste the flesh that’s most forbidden. The one where I might leave a mark, and I hope I do when my teeth graze his skin.

He grunts when he feels it, and things take a swift turn in his favor. Pinning me to the wall, he grabs my ass and lifts me against his crotch, throbbing heat stabbing into my belly. The straps of my leotard come down, baring my breasts as if he owns them. His hand rubs between my legs, and his clothes rub against my sensitive nipples. I jump at every touch, clinging to his shoulders and squeezing my thighs around his hips.

And I learn something new but not unsurprising about my captor. He bites back. First my throat, and then my collarbone, and finally my aching nipples. The game of who can leave their mark on who is sure to be won by him because I feel him everywhere. Red, mottled blotches cover my skin where he’s tasted me. My flesh is swollen and tender, a testament to his ownership over me.

My fingers twist and pull at his hair, trying to bring him closer so I can do the same. I want to bite him. I want to mark him. And more importantly, I want to own him. He groans and nips at my ear, his breath hot on my skin.

“You are turning into a very bad girl,” he hums. “Someday, I will let you mark me, pet.”

Someday.

The ever-present reminder that this is temporary. I try to shove him away, and he captures me by the wrists, shaking his head.

“Don’t pout, my sweet. It will be your body that I take every night.”

To prove it, he yanks my zipper down and removes my jeans. Next comes my leotard, and in a blink, I’m naked. It isn’t fair that he doesn’t give me the same courtesy, only reaching down to unzip his jeans and retrieve his cock. But when I see the tan, heavy flesh, my trials are soon forgotten.

“Are you sore, zvezda?” he asks as he rubs the fat head against my small opening.

“Yes,” I answer.

He groans and thrusts his hips forward, stabbing inside me. I cry out, and he rumbles his approval against my chest.

“You should always be sore from my cock,” he declares. “You should always remember who owns you.”

He squeezes my hips, tilting them to meet his needs, and my head falls back against the wall.

“Put your hands up,” he says. “And hold onto me with your legs.”

I put my hands up, and he pins them to the wall with his. My legs squeeze around him, and it’s the only thing holding me up as he rocks his hips forward. He tortures my nipples with his tongue while he fucks me, and there’s nothing I can do but endure it.

“These tits belong to me.” His words are punctuated by his thrusts. “So does this ass. And this pussy. If you understand nothing else, zvezda, then understand this. You are mine.”

His momentum builds with every hushed declaration, and I confirm that he’s right when pleasure rockets through my body. Spasms arc through me, forcing me to bow and contract around him. We are panting. High. Hungry for each other. And I can’t deny how much I like this. He’s inside me, and for now, he is mine too.

He stops and starts drunkenly, confusion marring his brows.

“Stop, stop,” he urges, but I’m not doing anything. I can’t do anything with the way he has me pinned. Still, his hips grind a to a halt, and his fingers kiss my face. “I’m going to blow if you keep doing that, zvezda.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I protest.

“You are,” he insists. “You are ruining me. What the fuck are you doing?”