Owning Violet (The Fowler Sisters #1)(101)

“Having fun?” he asks amusedly.

I laugh and shake my head, closing my eyes against my image before I turn my head to look at him. “I’ve never watched myself like this before.”

“Overcome by your own beauty?”

“You make me sound incredibly vain,” I admonish, embarrassment surging through me. “Besides, I’m not the prettiest one.”

“Prettiest one what?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.

I turn away from him and stare at my reflection once more. I assess myself as objectively as possible. Boring brown hair. Dark brown eyes. Average nose, too-large mouth that kids made fun of when I was in school. Decent body. I’m no great beauty like Rose. I’m not an outrageously sexy bombshell with a body that makes men drool like Lily, either.

I’m just … me.

“The prettiest Fowler sister,” I finally say with a sigh. “When you compare me to Rose and Lily, I’m definitely lacking.”

I barely get the words out before he’s right on top of me, his bent legs on either side of my hips, his hands going to my wrists and hauling them up above my head, his face in mine. He looks … angry. “Are you serious?” he asks incredulously.

“Wh-what do you mean?” His ferocious expression, the sound of his voice—he’s scaring me.

I can’t ignore the trickle of arousal that runs through me at the way he holds me down, his fingers tight around my wrists. That he makes me fear him and want him all at once is so confusing.

But I feel safe with him. Always, always safe.

“You think you’re lacking?” He slowly dips his head until his mouth brushes against mine and he breathes, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

I don’t close my eyes. I can’t. It’s fascinating, looking at him like this as he holds me down. I’m helpless, at his mercy. He could hurt me so easily. He even said he would hurt me, but he doesn’t. He never has.

More than anything, Ryder has shown me how to let myself go and be free.

“You have the prettiest, darkest eyes,” he says when I don’t say anything. “All that long hair I like to pull.” He releases one of my wrists to thread his fingers through the ends of my hair and gives it a tug, making me wince. “And your mouth …” His voice trails off and I blink up at him in confusion.

“What about my mouth?” I gave up long ago trying to hide my too-big lips. I wear both the brightest and the darkest lipstick colors as much as possible. I may as well play up the asset that will help sell Fleur lipsticks.

“I like kissing it,” he whispers and does just that, pressing his lips to mine in a sweet, lingering kiss before he adds, “I love kissing you.”

Oh, God. A tremble moves through me and I close my eyes against the onslaught of emotions that bombard me.

I open my eyes to find him staring at me, his face so close I can make out the stubble covering his cheeks and chin. I love it, too, when he rubs his rough face against my sensitive skin, making me shiver. Leaving red marks all over my body, imprinting himself on me in all the various ways he has. “I love kissing you, too,” I whisper.

He smiles and releases his hold on me, pressing his face against my neck so he can deliver a kiss there. Slowly he slides down my body, running his mouth across my chest, over my breasts, his tongue teasing each of my nipples quickly—too quickly—before he moves on.

I sink my hands in his hair, trying to hold him to me, but he keeps going, his warm, damp mouth drifting along my stomach, his tongue circling the dip of my navel. My skin heats from his attention and I grow wet and achy between my legs. Anxious. Needy.

Always needy.

He knows. He knows exactly how to elicit a reaction from me, how to make me want him so bad I lose control. He’s using it against me, driving me purposely crazy as he pulls away and starts to slowly unbutton his shirt, his legs straddling my hips once more as he looms above me.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” He tears off his tie viciously and tosses it to the floor, then finishes unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging out of it, revealing all that smooth, muscular skin.

I let my gaze wander, taking in the colorful tattoos that cover his upper body. His abdominal muscles ripple as he moves and I want to lick them. The dark hair that starts just below his navel and trails beneath the waistband of his pants, God, I want to lick that, too. The silver rings in his nipples glint from the dim light in the room and I want to suck them into my mouth, tongue his nipples, hear him moan and tell me to stop.

My gaze drops. His cock strains against the front of his pants and I want to free him so I can draw his erection between my lips, just like he wants. Unable to help myself, I reach out and touch him, drifting my fingertips along his turgid length. He tenses, doesn’t move as I curl my fingers around him and grip him tight. I prop myself up on my elbows and move my head closer, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his covered cock, exhaling hotly against him, my gaze never leaving his.

“Jesus,” he mutters, shoving at my shoulder so I fall back against the pillows. I wait breathlessly as he undoes his belt buckle and pulls it from the belt loops, dropping it so it lands on the floor with a clank. I’m transfixed as he unbuttons and unzips his pants, tugging them and his boxer briefs down his muscular thighs so his cock thrusts out, toward me.

My mouth waters and I part my lips, whimpering when he wraps his hand around the base of his cock and starts stroking.