Every time.
It’s like this every time he touches me.
My teeth sink into my lower lip to keep the sound buried deep inside. I’m guessing that Axel is itty-bitty titty committee guy.
“I think your breasts are fucking perfect.” His other hand rises, fingers reaching out to play with the other neglected nipple before manipulating them in tandem.
He caresses me until my head rolls back, and I’m unable to stop the whimper from breaking free. How is it possible to enjoy his touch all the while hating him? It’s confusing to have so many conflicting emotions warring inside me.
“Does that feel good?” He glances at my face, scrutinizing my expression as if he’s genuinely curious. “Do you like when I touch you?” His voice grows thicker, huskier. Until it sounds as if it’s been dredged from the bottom of the ocean.
Like isn’t nearly a strong enough word, but I’m loathe to tell him that. I don’t want Kingsley to realize how much he affects me. It wouldn’t surprise me if he turned around and used that information against me.
When his fingers disappear, a mewling protest escapes from my lips. His wide hands wrap around my hips before tugging me down the bed. I yelp and prop myself up on my elbows. The movement causes my back to arch and my breasts to lift. He releases my hips as his hands return to my chest.
“I don’t need anything more than this,” he murmurs, continuing to palm the soft weight. “You’re the perfect handful.”
All the other times Kingsley has touched me, it’s been laced with anger and a need to dominate as he forces me to submit. This is different. His touch is unexpectedly tender. I’m shocked to realize that as much as I enjoy the way he’s caressing me, I also like when he manhandles me. My body responds to the control he exerts as if it’s his God given right. A shudder passes through me as I shove that disturbing thought from my mind, unwilling to inspect it with further thoroughness.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Why am I enjoying something I clearly shouldn’t?
When he tweaks my nipples, a strange pleasure-pain shoots through me and those thoughts disintegrate. A gasp leaves my lips before I cut it off.
“Don’t do that,” he growls. “I want your moans. All of them.” As if to reinforce the point, he pinches the stiffened little buds again. “Understand?”
“Yes,” I groan as he soothes my abraded flesh with gentle caresses.
“Good girl.” His gaze flicks to mine. “Tell me the truth, do you like the way I touch you?”
There is too much pleasure rushing through me to lie. “Yes, I like it.”
So much.
Too much.
No one has ever played with me like this. There were a few guys I went out with in Chicago. There’s even been a boob graze or two. At homecoming junior year, my date worked up the courage to lay his hand over my breast and squeeze it, but I quickly knocked him away and that was the extent of physical contact for the evening.
What Kingsley is doing is altogether different. He’s not asking permission. This is more of a claiming. As if he’s making me his. Marking me as his.
Property of K. Rothchild
I should hate the implication and the way he’s forcing my body to crave his touch. With every passing hour, my feelings for him become more muddled. The strange relationship we have forged is no longer black and white. Yes, I hate him, but if I’m being perfectly honest, I want him, too. I don’t know how to reconcile those feelings.
Warm night air hits my nipple as one hand disappears only to be replaced by the heat of his mouth. The velvetiness of his tongue dances around the areola. Swirling over the flesh without ever coming in contact with the tightened little bud that begs for his attention. His other hand continues toying with my breast. Alternately stroking the tip before kneading the soft weight. With his face lowered to my chest and his upper body caging me in, I groan and shift restlessly beneath him.
When he finally drags the flat of his tongue around my nipple before lapping at the center, I nearly come off the bed. He grunts when my fingers thread through his short hair, dragging him closer. He must understand what I’m desperately trying to convey because he draws the peak into his mouth. I can only liken the pull of his lips to a bomb being detonated, sending shock waves of arousal straight to my core.
I whimper as he continues to tug mercilessly on the hardened tip.
With a rumble that comes from deep within his chest, he lifts his head before switching to the other side. Fingers vanish as his mouth takes over. Heat gathers in my core, flooding my panties. Sensation whips through my center like an oncoming storm. My pussy throbs to life with a need so sharp that it borders on agonizing.