Forever Mine (Tormentor Mine Book 4) Page 6

  Her eyes look increasingly glazed, her pupils dilating more each second. “I do. You know I do.” She sounds breathless, her inner muscles tightening and her hips undulating in a rhythm that tells me she’s on the verge. “Please, Peter…”

  I pull my fingers out and lift my hand to her face. “Suck them.” I push the fingers between her plush lips. “Get them nice and wet, you understand?”

  Her eyes widen again, but she obeys, her agile tongue swirling around my fingers as I thrust them into her mouth. It feels amazing, making me imagine that tongue on my cock. Wanting more, I push my fingers deeper and feel her throat convulse in a gagging reflex, coating them with more saliva.

  Fuck. If I don’t get inside her, I’ll explode.

  Unzipping my jeans with my free hand, I pull my fingers from her mouth and push them back into her pussy, letting her slickness mix with the saliva as I resume finger-fucking her, wanting that glazed look back in her eyes.

  It doesn’t take long—within thirty seconds, she’s breathing fast, her pale skin beautifully flushed. Her gaze is still locked on mine, but her eyes turn hazy and unseeing, her mouth opening as her nails dig into my biceps and her thigh muscles quiver like a string.

  I wait until I’m sure she’s coming, and then I pull my fingers out again—only to lift her by her toned thighs and spear her with my aching cock. Her wordless O transforms into a loud gasp, her legs wrapping tightly around my hips as I penetrate her all the way in one ruthless thrust. I can feel her inner muscles pulsing and contracting as I settle deep within her, and it takes all my willpower not to give in the powerful urge to come.

  She’s not getting off this easy.

  Not tonight.

  Somehow, I’m able to hang on until her spasms ease and her body slackens against mine, her lids closing as a blissed-out glow appears on her face. Lowering my head, I kiss her parted lips and move the hand that finger-fucked her from her thigh to the tempting crevice between her ass cheeks.

  She’s so relaxed and caught up in my kiss that there’s minimal resistance as I press one slick finger against her tight back opening and carefully work it in. I’m already inside her to the first knuckle when her eyes fly open and her body stiffens, her inner muscles clamping on my cock and finger as her legs tighten around my hips.

  “Let me in, ptichka,” I murmur against her lips. “You know you want this.”

  Not that she has much choice. I’m holding her with my free hand and the weight of my body. With her legs wrapped around my hips and my cock buried deep inside her, there’s no way she can escape or control the depth of penetration of either of her holes.

  She’s completely at my mercy, and that’s exactly what I want.

  I haven’t taken her ass since our wedding night, but I haven’t stopped thinking about it—about how those perfect round globes had felt pressed against my balls and the look of ecstasy-edged agony on her face. I had hurt her, I know, and something about that had been perversely right, uniquely satisfying.

  As much as I adore her, I still want to punish her sometimes, to see fear fight with arousal in her pretty eyes.

  Raising my head, I see those eyes reflect exactly that as she stares up at me. “I…” Her breath is quickening again. “I don’t know if—”

  I swallow her next words with another kiss and resume working my finger into her tight ass as I lift her higher with my free hand, moving her on my cock. She whimpers against my lips, and I feel my cock rub against the finger through the thin wall separating her two orifices.

  My breathing speeds up, my balls drawing up tighter, and whatever restraint I still possessed vanishes. Deeping the kiss, I surge farther into her and simultaneously push the second finger into her ass. She stiffens, her nails digging deeper into my arms and her inner muscles clenching in resistance, but it’s futile. I’m already inside her, so deep that she’ll never get me out.

  There’ll be no escape for my ptichka.

  Not now, and not ever.

  Everything within me is screaming for me to fuck her, to drive into her over and over until I erupt and the unbearable tension fades, but there’s something else I want as well. Breathing heavily, I lift my head and capture her gaze as she looks up at me dazedly, her face flushed and her lids heavy with arousal.

  “Tell me what you need,” I command thickly, and her breath hisses between her teeth as I push my fingers deeper into her ass, stretching it, preparing it. “I want to hear you say it.”

  “I don’t…” She moans, her eyes squeezing shut as I scissor my fingers, stretching her further. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. Look at me.”

  Her eyes obediently flutter open, and her delicate tongue peeks out to dampen her lower lip.

  “Tell me, Sara. Tell me what you really need.”

  “I..” Her breathing quickens further as I begin to grind into her, making sure to press on her clit with every movement. “It’s… this. Peter, I need this. I need you inside me. I need you to”—she gasps as I thrust deeper into her—“take me and…”

  “And what?” I prompt, my spine tingling as I feel her inner muscles tighten.

  “To fuck me.” She’s panting now, her gaze turning hazy and unfocused. “To… to hurt me.”

  “Yes.” My voice comes out hoarse. “That’s right. And you are mine. Mine to fuck, to hurt, to do anything I want with. Aren’t you, my love?”

  She nods, her eyes refocusing on mine. “Yes, Peter. Always.”

  Always. The word pierces my chest, bringing with it a mix of warm tenderness and violent satisfaction. I love that she understands it now. Admits it.

  We are meant for each other. I’ve known it from the beginning—and now she knows it too.

  Dipping my head, I reclaim her lips, keeping the kiss soft and gentle even as I pull my fingers out of her and hook both hands under her thighs, spreading her legs wider as I lift her higher. My cock slips out of her pussy and presses against her back entrance.

  Her breath hitches on a gasp, but I’m already lowering her onto my stiff cock, using the force of gravity and the slickness of her natural lubrication to aid my penetration. If I hadn’t stretched her with my fingers, it would’ve been impossible, but as is, the ring of muscle gives in to the unyielding pressure and I slide into her tight channel, feeling her insides squeeze me in a frantic effort to resist the invasion.

  “Peter…” She’s trembling as I lift my head, meeting her gaze once more. “Peter, please…”

  “Yes,” I promise huskily. “I will give you what you need, ptichka. Everything you need.”

  And holding her gaze, I begin to move, taking her to where pain edges into pleasure and love and hate collide.

  To that beautiful place where she’s mine and mine alone.

  Part II

  17

  Henderson

  I study the new set of photos on my screen as I rub the knotted muscles in my neck, trying to ignore my growing headache.

  Reaching out to the FBI worked, and it didn’t take much prodding, either.

  Agent Ryson was only too glad to resume his investigation into Sokolov for me.

  I’m not holding my breath that he’ll uncover anything, but that’s not the point of it, anyway. I just need an investigation to exist, even if it’s more of a personal vendetta by a disgruntled agent.

  Opening the folder on my desk, I study the blueprints inside. The plan is beginning to take shape, slowly but surely. Now I just need to find the right people to execute it.

  The sounds of automatic gunfire reach my ears, exacerbating the painful throbbing in my temples. Shoving the folder aside, I stand up and walk into the living room.

  “Jimmy.”

  My fifteen-year-old son doesn’t react.

  I repeat his name louder.

  “What?” he snaps without tearing his gaze away from the screen.

  “Lower the volume on that fucking game,” I say as calmly as I can.

  He flips me the bird.

&nbs
p; My headache morphs into a blazing migraine, my neck spasming with fresh pain as icy rage spreads through my veins.

  Outwardly calm, I walk over to the couch and snatch the controller from my son’s hands.

  “Hey!” He jumps up, trying to grab it back, and the back of my hand crashes into his face, knocking him off his feet.

  “I told you to turn off that fucking game,” I say evenly as he stares up at me, cradling his jaw, and dropping the controller on the floor, I walk back to my office.

  18

  Sara

  I wake up Saturday morning with the knowledge that Peter and I have been married for a week—and that we just spent the first night in our new house.

  I didn’t really have a chance to look at everything last night, so I take in the bedroom now. It’s bright and spacious, with the walls painted a soothing, pale blue-gray and the recessed ceiling at least twelve feet high above our king-sized oak-frame bed.

  It’s pretty and modern, and I have a sudden wifely urge to buy plants to put in every corner.

  Grinning, I stretch, then wince at the inner soreness. After that brutal claiming in the hallway, Peter carried me upstairs and took me again in the shower, then one more time in this bed.

  One of these days, we’ll need to talk about what a normal, healthy amount of sex is. Men aren’t supposed to fuck their wives every night like they just got out of prison.

  I picture that discussion and shake my head. Who am I kidding? Soreness or not, I don’t mind his desire for me one bit. Peter’s intense sexuality is a part of him, as unapologetically fierce as his love for me. It accepts no boundaries, adheres to no restraints. And I want him like that: savage yet tender, lethal but perversely sweet.

  I’m done pretending that I’m anything but crazy over him, as wrong as that might be.

  Delicious breakfast smells are already seeping in from under the closed door, so I take a quick shower in our new, luxurious bathroom, throw on a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt, and hurry downstairs, my stomach rumbling.

  My husband is standing by the restaurant-grade stainless-steel stove, flipping pancakes, and I stop, saliva pooling in my mouth at the sight. Dressed in a well-worn pair of jeans and nothing else, he’s all wide shoulders and lean, hard muscles, the tattoos decorating his left arm flexing with every movement of his powerful biceps. His thick, dark hair is deliciously mussed, as if inviting my fingers to touch it, and his tan skin gleams in the bright morning light.

  Turning, he faces me with a sensuous smile. “There she is, my little songbird. How are you feeling?”

  I lick my lips, unable to take my eyes off the broad expanse of his chest. “Hungry.”

  “Uh-huh, I thought so.” He grins. “Unfortunately, ptichka, you slept so late that it’s now brunch time. Your parents are getting here in twenty minutes, so you’ll have to wait.”

  I glance up at the clock and realize he’s right. “This is all your fault,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest. “You kept me up really late.”

  “I know. Poor darling. Come here.” He comes toward me, eyes gleaming darkly, and I back away.

  “Nuh-uh. We don’t have time.”

  He reaches for me. “We always have time.”

  “The pancakes—”

  His warm lips close over mine, his tongue invading the recesses of my mouth, and my fingers find their way into his silky hair as my head falls back into the cradle of his palms. His breath is honey-flavored—he must’ve been sampling those pancakes—and I can’t help but blink dazedly when he finally lifts his head, staring down at me without a hint of playfulness.

  “I can’t fucking wait until we’re alone again,” he mutters, then dips his head, claiming my mouth with a fiercer, harder kiss, one that leaves no doubt of his ultimate intent.

  He’s going to take me again.

  The moment my parents leave, I’ll be back in his bed.

  The doorbell rings just as he comes up for air again. “Fuck.” Breathing hard, he lets go of me. “They’re early again.”

  I smooth my hair with an unsteady hand, painfully cognizant of my kiss-swollen lips. “You better get dressed. I’ll go greet them.”

  “Hold on.” He strides over to the stove and flips the pancakes from the pan onto a serving dish. “So they don’t burn,” he explains and heads out of the kitchen.

  I sneak a peek in a mirror on my way to the door. I definitely look like I’ve just been ravished, but there’s no helping it.

  I smooth my hair again, and open the door to greet my parents.

  They insist on a tour of the house first, so we go from room to room while Peter sets the table, and I’m once again amazed at how much he’d accomplished yesterday. Though a box or two are still sitting discreetly in some corners and the furniture is minimal at best, everything is organized and neat… almost unnaturally so.

  “I can’t believe you’re so settled already,” Mom says, voicing my thoughts. “I thought your closing was Thursday?”

  “It was,” I say. “But Peter has a way of getting things done.”

  “No kidding,” Dad mutters, opening a linen closet and finding the towels already inside, neatly folded. “He’s a machine, that husband of yours.”

  I reach over to squeeze Dad’s weathered forearm. “Yes, and that’s a good thing.”

  My parents aren’t exactly on board with our relationship yet, but I’m hoping that as they spend more time with Peter, they’ll come around. Our first dinner together went relatively well last week, thanks largely to Peter being surprisingly open about his past and his feelings for me. It also helped that he told them straight out that he wants to start a family—tantalizing my parents with the promise of grandchildren they’d all but given up hope of seeing.

  With my dad having turned eighty-eight and my mom just nine years younger, their grandparently biological clock is getting increasingly loud.

  Though my dad’s arthritis is acting up and he’s using a walker today, he insists on braving the stairs to see the whole house. We finish the tour in our bedroom, where I’m surprised to find the bed made. Peter must’ve done it when he went upstairs to get dressed.

  After they view the room, Dad goes to use the restroom while Mom checks out our walk-in closet.

  “So what do you think?” I ask when she comes out.

  She regards me seriously. “It’s a beautiful house, honey.”

  “But?” I prompt when she doesn’t go on.

  She sighs and walks over to sit down on the bed. “Your dad and I are still worried about you, that’s all.”

  “Mom—” I start in an exasperated tone, but she holds up her hand and pats the bed next to her.

  I walk over to sit down next to her, and she says in a low voice, “Agent Ryson came up to your father in the park yesterday morning. I don’t know what he told him, but your dad’s blood pressure was through the roof all day. I tried to pry, but he wouldn’t tell me anything other than that he’s worried for you.”

  I stare at her, an icy vise squeezing my heart. Why was the FBI agent there? What did he tell my dad? If it’s anything like what Ryson had accosted me with on my wedding day, it’s a wonder Dad didn’t have another heart attack right then and there.

  Could the FBI know something about Monica’s stepfather?

  My lungs cease functioning as the thought flits through my mind. I must’ve visibly paled too, because Mom frowns and reaches over to clasp my hand. “Are you okay, honey?”

  “Yes, I…” I force myself to resume breathing. “I’m fine.” My voice is a bit too high-pitched, so I throw in a smile to make it more convincing. “Sorry, I’m just worried about Dad. How’s his blood pressure today?”

  Mom sighs and lets go of my hand. “Better. Not perfect, but better. I do wish he’d tell me what the agent said, though.”

  “Right.” I manage to sound almost normal. “I’ll try to talk to him about it today.”

  “I think it’s better if you don’t.” Glancing at the bathroom door
, she lowers her voice further. “Whatever it was, it was obviously stressful, and I don’t want him dwelling on it.”

  “You got it, Mom,” I say and get up to smile at Dad as he comes out of the bathroom. “Now let’s go sample those pancakes.”

  As we eat, I observe Peter interacting with my parents. Though I know he’d much rather be alone with me, he’s again polite and respectful… downright kind in his manner. Going up and down the stairs seems to have aggravated my dad’s arthritis, so Peter helps him with his walker—and does it so casually and deftly that my dad forgets to take offense.

  At first, my parents are wary and reserved, but as the meal goes on, they seem to warm up to Peter—even my dad, despite whatever Ryson must’ve told him. It helps that Peter takes charge of the conversation, barraging my parents with questions about how they met and what I was like as a child instead of waiting for them to pry into his murky past.

  “Sara was such a perfect baby, you wouldn’t believe,” Mom tells Peter, beaming at me. “Slept all through the night, ate when she was supposed to, almost never cried. And never got sick, either, though she was born small—just under six pounds. We were so terrified—because of our age, you know—but she quickly put all our fears to rest. It was like she knew we weren’t the typical young parents who could take the strain, and she made sure everything would go by the book. That’s silly, obviously—she was just a baby—but that’s the impression everyone had.”

  “I could believe that,” Peter says, regarding me with such warmth that I blush and have to look away.

  Besides steering the conversation to my parents’ favorite topics, Peter shows his attentiveness in a variety of little ways. Mom gets her chamomile tea without asking, and my dad’s pancakes are served with a fresh bowl of fruit and whipped cream in addition to the homemade strawberry jam. I don’t know where Peter sniffed out this specific preference of my dad, but my parents clearly appreciate it.