Page 30
"I hate you," I whisper, the words lacking any real conviction.
His laugh ghosts across my skin. "Hate me all you want, but don't lie to me. Not again."
My heart hammers against my ribs like a caged bird. Three years of running, three years of building walls around us, and he's dismantled everything with just his voice in the darkness.
"I don't owe you anything," I hiss, still struggling against his grip.
His laugh is a dark rumble against my neck. "Oh, but you do." His free hand slides down my side, mapping the contours of my body through the thin fabric of my work dress. "Three years of your sweet cunt, for starters."
Gods, the memories that those words bring back send an unwelcome jolt of heat between my thighs. I hate this—hate how my body responds to him even as my mind screams in protest.
"Get your hands off me," I snap, even as his palm skims the curve of my hip.
"Not yet," Araton murmurs, and I feel the fabric of my skirt begin to bunch as he slowly draws it upward. "Not until I collect what you've kept from me."
The night air kisses my thighs as my dress rises inch by agonizing inch. My skin prickles with goosebumps—from fear or anticipation, I can't tell anymore. His breathing grows heavier against my ear.
"You owe me years worth of pleasure, fierce one." His voice drops to that velvet whisper that used to make me melt against him in my old shop. "And I always collect what I'm owed."
My dress reaches my hips now, and I'm acutely aware of how exposed I am—how vulnerable. His hand slides over the curve of my bare thigh, and I bite my lip to suppress a whimper.
"Stop," I say, but the word lacks conviction.
"Your mouth says stop," Araton counters, "but your body..." His fingertips trail higher, brushing against the edge of my undergarments. "Your body remembers who it belongs to."
"I belong to no one," I manage to say, even as my legs tremble with the effort of staying upright.
His laugh ghosts across my skin. "Still lying to yourself, I see."
Before I can respond, his hand slips beneath the thin fabric and finds me—wet, traitorous, ready. I gasp at the contact, arching involuntarily against him.
"Just as I thought," Araton says, satisfaction dripping from every syllable as his middle finger slides through my folds. "Are you always this wet for people you claim to hate?"
My cheeks burn with humiliation and arousal. I want to deny it, to maintain some shred of dignity, but my body betrays me with every passing second. His finger circles my entrance, teasing but not entering, and I have to bite back a groan.
"If you want something," I bite out, "just get on with it."
He jerks my wrist up, bowing my back further. "So impatient," he chides, sliding one long finger inside me with agonizing slowness. "But I've waited three years for this. I think I'll take my time."
My head falls against the cottage wall as he begins to move his finger in and out, setting a leisurely pace that makes me want to scream. When he adds a second finger, I can't hold back a moan.
"That's it," he encourages, his thumb finding and circling the bundle of nerves that makes my knees buckle. "Let me hear how much you've missed this."
"I haven't," I lie, even as my hips rock against his hand.
"No?" His fingers curl inside me, hitting a spot that makes me see stars. "Your greedy little cunt says otherwise. It's squeezing my fingers so tight... always so desperate for me."
His praise washes over me, degrading and exalting all at once. I hate how it affects me—how it makes me wetter, more desperate. The pressure builds low in my belly as he increases his pace, driving me toward the edge with practiced precision.
"You're prettier when you beg for it," Araton says, his voice rough with desire. "Go on, let me hear you."
I clench my jaw, determined to deny him this victory at least. His fingers thrust deeper, harder, and I feel myself teetering on the brink of release.
"I won't," I gasp.
"Then you don't get to come," he replies simply.
And just like that, his hand is gone. The sudden emptiness is almost painful, my body clenching around nothing. I cry out in frustration, unable to stop myself.
His laugh ghosts across my skin. "Hate me all you want, but don't lie to me. Not again."
My heart hammers against my ribs like a caged bird. Three years of running, three years of building walls around us, and he's dismantled everything with just his voice in the darkness.
"I don't owe you anything," I hiss, still struggling against his grip.
His laugh is a dark rumble against my neck. "Oh, but you do." His free hand slides down my side, mapping the contours of my body through the thin fabric of my work dress. "Three years of your sweet cunt, for starters."
Gods, the memories that those words bring back send an unwelcome jolt of heat between my thighs. I hate this—hate how my body responds to him even as my mind screams in protest.
"Get your hands off me," I snap, even as his palm skims the curve of my hip.
"Not yet," Araton murmurs, and I feel the fabric of my skirt begin to bunch as he slowly draws it upward. "Not until I collect what you've kept from me."
The night air kisses my thighs as my dress rises inch by agonizing inch. My skin prickles with goosebumps—from fear or anticipation, I can't tell anymore. His breathing grows heavier against my ear.
"You owe me years worth of pleasure, fierce one." His voice drops to that velvet whisper that used to make me melt against him in my old shop. "And I always collect what I'm owed."
My dress reaches my hips now, and I'm acutely aware of how exposed I am—how vulnerable. His hand slides over the curve of my bare thigh, and I bite my lip to suppress a whimper.
"Stop," I say, but the word lacks conviction.
"Your mouth says stop," Araton counters, "but your body..." His fingertips trail higher, brushing against the edge of my undergarments. "Your body remembers who it belongs to."
"I belong to no one," I manage to say, even as my legs tremble with the effort of staying upright.
His laugh ghosts across my skin. "Still lying to yourself, I see."
Before I can respond, his hand slips beneath the thin fabric and finds me—wet, traitorous, ready. I gasp at the contact, arching involuntarily against him.
"Just as I thought," Araton says, satisfaction dripping from every syllable as his middle finger slides through my folds. "Are you always this wet for people you claim to hate?"
My cheeks burn with humiliation and arousal. I want to deny it, to maintain some shred of dignity, but my body betrays me with every passing second. His finger circles my entrance, teasing but not entering, and I have to bite back a groan.
"If you want something," I bite out, "just get on with it."
He jerks my wrist up, bowing my back further. "So impatient," he chides, sliding one long finger inside me with agonizing slowness. "But I've waited three years for this. I think I'll take my time."
My head falls against the cottage wall as he begins to move his finger in and out, setting a leisurely pace that makes me want to scream. When he adds a second finger, I can't hold back a moan.
"That's it," he encourages, his thumb finding and circling the bundle of nerves that makes my knees buckle. "Let me hear how much you've missed this."
"I haven't," I lie, even as my hips rock against his hand.
"No?" His fingers curl inside me, hitting a spot that makes me see stars. "Your greedy little cunt says otherwise. It's squeezing my fingers so tight... always so desperate for me."
His praise washes over me, degrading and exalting all at once. I hate how it affects me—how it makes me wetter, more desperate. The pressure builds low in my belly as he increases his pace, driving me toward the edge with practiced precision.
"You're prettier when you beg for it," Araton says, his voice rough with desire. "Go on, let me hear you."
I clench my jaw, determined to deny him this victory at least. His fingers thrust deeper, harder, and I feel myself teetering on the brink of release.
"I won't," I gasp.
"Then you don't get to come," he replies simply.
And just like that, his hand is gone. The sudden emptiness is almost painful, my body clenching around nothing. I cry out in frustration, unable to stop myself.
Table of Contents
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