His hand slides between my thighs, fingers pushing the thin fabric aside and dragging through already wet folds without hesitation, without asking.
I would never admit it out loud, but the fact he doesn’t make it even better.
“You’re dripping,” he mutters against my ear. “All that attitude, while your cunt’s begging for me.”
I arch, trying to get more friction, but he pulls me back against him, biting my earlobe hard enough to sting.
“Say that again,” he growls. “Say that I should leave.”
I should say it right here, straight to his face. I should also push him off, claw back whatever pride I still have left, and continue my pity party alone.
But the proximity of his body and his hard cock pressed against my lower back throws that plan right out the window. Instead, I lean in, wracked breathing, legs shaking, wanting more.
“Beg,” I say it with more confidence than I feel.
I want him to show me I’m not the only crazy one here, not the only one who’s losing herself.
I expect him to laugh, to call off whatever game he’s playing this time. Except he doesn’t.
He lifts me, slamming my back against the counter seconds later as he carries me there. My sweater gets yanked over my head, and my panties are shredded. Literally. He is a hungry man, and spending time to remove them like a normal person would be too wasteful.
Taking a step back, Azrael lingers, admiring his prize. I’ve never felt this exposed, but something in his demeanor fills my chest with illogical pride. He likes what he sees.
“Please.”
Under normal circumstances, this means nothing. But coming from him it’s like winning a war.
That’s all it takes. Every part of me that wanted him to be dead—needed him to be dead—shatters in pieces. He surrenders. I’ve won.
“Now, open.” And his tone is a strange combination of threatening and despair.
I like the sound of him wanting something only I can give, and the pain behind the request. But he’s not the only one. I know, for a fact, we are both about to jump off the deep end with no safety net beneath us. I cannot find the strength in me to fight it, so I do it, legs opening in one ungraceful move.
He drops to his knees like he is about to pray—and maybe he is. Not to a God, but to the devil itself, with me as the altar.
My skin ignites under his touch, wrapping me in passion flames. His fingers travel carelessly from my ankle up my leg, grazing my clit, then to the other leg, repeating the movement. Once his hand covers every inch of my body, he drags gentle kisses along my inner thighs, advancing slowly to the center. The delicate teasing is in antithesis with the fire burning in my veins and the raw lust to feel him inside me.
After what feels like an eternity of waiting in agony, his tongue finally reaches the point I’ve been mentally begging him to please, licking from the base of my slit all the way up, savoring my taste.
The first contact leaves me breathless. If this is how I get over my manic episodes, I’ll gladly do this once or twice.Don’t push it. True, but right now, having him between my legs is all I need. That, and to forget what he did to me and let him repay his debt in physical pleasure.
“Fucking delicious,” he says, licking his lips, and the blown breath that touches my skin sends shivers through my body.
“Azrael, fucking hell—.” I’m breathless, my body aching from the need to feel him again.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against my skin. “You are many orgasms overdue, little ember,” he says, the words a promise and a threat at the same time. “And I plan on making you remember every single one of them.”
That is something I can see myself accepting if?—
What the fuck? He just spit on me—fucking spit—and uses his tongue to smear it in, spreading my folds open with his fingers like he needs full access. Something inside me purrs at the filth, at being used like that, at being open like that. And worse—I like it.
The way he brutally demands, circling and pushing with his tongue, makes it feel like he’s invading me. In and out, increasing pressure only to release it a second later.
A violent gasp tears from my throat, the pleasure so absolute it feels like an assault. My thighs tremble, and I fight the instinct to close them, but he holds them captive anyway, fingers pressing into my skin until I can’t hide.
When he stops for just a second to catch his breath, he lifts his head and his eyes are looking straight into mine. Nothing in their depths offers tenderness; everything about him screams violence, roughness, and lust.
“Still not ruined,” he argues with a dangerous undertone, “Yet.”