Page 15 of Forbidden Empire (Sinful Gods #1)

Six

E SME

His mouth crashed over mine like a man who’d been waiting his whole life to do it, tongue hungry, lips hard, no hesitation. Each slide of his tongue felt like he was staking a claim, every press of his mouth another inch of ground taken.

I’d thought I’d put up a fight. Instead, my whole body just…melted. The heat pooled low in my core, spreading so fast it made my head spin.

Yeah, my hips were the first to betray me. I rolled up against him, right into the thick, demanding pressure of him, chasing friction I’d promised myself I wouldn’t want.

Gravity? Gone. The world spun out. My lungs burned.

I needed air, but I needed him more.

He let go of my wrists, and I thought I’d be relieved, but nope. If anything, it just made the need worse, even more so when his arm clamped around my waist, like he couldn’t trust me not to run.

Spoiler: I wasn’t going anywhere.

I could have stopped this. I chose not to. It was about choice, not surrender.

So I kissed him back. Hard. My tongue met his, and there was blood, whiskey, and something else sharp and wild between us. His fingers found my hair, yanked hard at the nape until pain zapped right through my scalp, so strong my head snapped back.

My throat was wide open, and I made this sound that was half gasp, half moan, all desperation.

He refused to let up. His tongue dove deeper, taking everything, like he could own me from the inside. Every stroke was a jolt, lighting up nerves I never knew existed.

I clawed at his back, fingers curling through his shirt, nails digging down because I needed something solid or I was going to fall apart.

He let go of my hair and slid his hands down my body, palms rough on my thighs and fingers gripping my ass hard enough to bruise. He lifted me like I weighed nothing.

My stomach shot into my throat. I held on for dear life, but he couldn’t have cared less; he carried me those last few steps and then tossed me onto the bed like it was the one place I belonged.

The impact knocked the breath straight out of me, mattress springs screeching like they were as startled as I was.

My dress twisted up, caught around my hips, leaving nothing but the lacy edge of my underwear.

He noticed, of course. His gaze flicked there and lingered, patient and predatory, like he was waiting for me to cave.

He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling, his shirt clinging to every muscle as he tensed up.

Dried blood streaked from his split lip, stark and red.

I should’ve been scared. That was the sane reaction, but my thighs were shaking for a whole different reason.

My body wanted anything but normal. Heat pooled between my legs, embarrassing and impossible to hide.

“I hate you,” I whispered.

It sounded pathetic, all hoarse and shaky, since my hands reached for him anyway.

He gave no answer, just staring with eyes so dark that I couldn’t tell where the blackness stopped and the rest of the eyes started.

When he leaned down, the bed dipped, and I slid just a little toward him, like the mattress wanted me closer, too. He was hot, close enough that I could smell him, a mix of blood, sweat, and expensive cologne.

My hands acted on their own, yanking at the pearl buttons and sending them flying across the floor. The ripping sound of fabric was loud, sharp, and satisfying, filling the space between our heavy breathing.

He growled, a real, honest-to-god growl, as I shoved his ruined shirt off his shoulders.

The first touch of skin to skin, it shouldn’t have been any different than before, but somehow it was, a spark zapping straight up my arm and making me jolt.

My fingers skimmed over old scars, mapped the lines of muscle I’d already learned by heart but somehow hadn’t mastered.

Then he caught my wrist.

Hard.

Tomorrow, I’d see the marks.

He yanked my hand to his mouth, and his teeth scraped across my fingertips; his eyes never left mine, a dark dare set hard and challenging in the depths.

Heat flooded my tongue. I wasn’t bleeding, not that I could tell, but my heart hammered so hard in my chest, I thought maybe it would break loose and smack him in the face.

Every single nerve ending I had screamed at me to run, now, but my body leaned in, desperate for the very thing it shouldn’t want.

His other hand slid up, palm bracing against my throat, thumb pressing just hard enough that I remembered how easily he could snap it.

I swallowed.

He felt that, and his thumb pressed in a tiny bit more, tracking every movement. His mouth twitched up at the corner, not a smile, unless you could call something that wild a smile.

"You should be afraid of me," he said, and the way he said it made me want to laugh, or maybe scream, or perhaps melt into the bed and disappear.

He pressed his thumb to my throat. I could feel my pulse beating under his hand, fast, frantic, like a rabbit trying to escape a snare.

It was pointless to pretend I didn’t like it. My body shivered, but not from fear.

It was something worse than fear, the way his hips locked me in place, holding me so I couldn’t move. He was hard against my thigh, and I could feel every inch of him.

Then his teeth scraped my ear, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.

“I can feel your heart racing,” he said, hot against my neck. “Are you scared, Esme? Or is this something else?”

The mattress dipped under us.

He was a rock, and I was…I wasn’t sure, perhaps a puddle?

I dug my nails into his shoulders, not caring if I left marks. If anything, I hoped I did.

He groaned, deep and guttural, and I tasted blood. Maybe I’d bitten my own lip.

“I hate you,” I repeated, stoic in my resolve that he was the enemy, but my body wasn’t getting the message. My thighs just opened for him.

“Liar,” he said, and his mouth was on my neck, teeth scraping, biting down just enough to make my vision go bright and fuzzy around the edges.

My back arched up, pressing me against him, and he pinned me there like he was never going to let go.

His hand inched up my thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp as he shoved my dress up higher. His palm was rough, calluses dragging over my bare skin, each little scratch shooting sparks right between my legs.

God, I was already soaked, and he hadn’t even gotten started.

When he grabbed my ass and squeezed, I couldn’t even pretend to stay quiet. The moan was embarrassing and loud, and judging by the way his lips curled against my collarbone, he loved every second.

“That’s it,” he said, teeth scraping my skin. “Let me hear you.”

He moved his hand, tracing along my panties, fingers light. Teasing. I squirmed, wanting more, needing it. When his fingers pressed into the damp fabric, I almost lost it.

My hips jerked up without warning. He just laughed, dark and smug, and slid a finger under the elastic, right against me.

“Jesus, you’re soaked,” he said, all but groaning.

He shoved the panties aside, rough but careful, and dragged a finger along my entrance.

It was torture.

He collected all that slickness, then slid inside, slow on purpose, making me clench and shudder and want more. I couldn’t hold back. I made some desperate noise, but whatever.

“Look at you,” he growled, hot breath against my neck.

He twisted his wrist, and somehow his finger landed right on that spot that made my whole body go tight and boneless.

My head spun. His teeth found my earlobe and bit down, just enough to hurt in the best way, and then there were two fingers stretching me, filling me up.

“Still want to tell me how much you hate me?”

I couldn’t manage the words. My body arched into his hand, chasing friction, desperate. The mattress creaked under us as my hips jerked, helpless and greedy. He caught my mouth, swallowing my moans, his tongue matching the pace of his fingers until I could taste my need.

And then? Nothing.

Cold air rushed in where his warmth had been. I reached out, desperate, my hand closing on nothing. A broken sound slipped from my lips as I watched him get up, every inch of me aching at the loss.

He stopped at the end of the bed, the moonlight catching his chest and turning muscle into shadow and light. His hands went to his belt, the small metal click of the buckle deafening.

Then, slow and deliberate, he peeled away the last pieces of clothing, the soft sound of fabric brushing skin filling the room.

His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed dark with blood, a bead of moisture catching the dim light at its tip. My mouth went dry, pulse hammering so hard I could feel it between my legs.

I couldn't look away, couldn't pretend I wasn't memorizing every ridge, every vein, every inch that would soon be inside me. The thought alone made my inner walls clench.

I forced my gaze upward, past the taut ridges of his abdomen, the broad expanse of his chest, to find his eyes burning into mine with an intensity that stole what little breath I had left.

"I need you, Esme," he said, raw, primal. "Fuck, do you have any idea what you do to me?"

I couldn’t speak. I flicked my gaze down to where he stood rigid and straining, then back up at him.

The hunger on his face was savage, carved into every line.

I cocked an eyebrow, let the corner of my mouth hitch up, a silent dare, even though my thighs were shaking so hard I thought I might collapse.

He looked at me, and something dangerous flashed in his eyes. Possession, obsession, some ancient, predatory thing. It should have scared me. Instead, it made my whole body flush hot, heat flooding between my legs.

He was on me in an instant, the mattress dipping like a sinkhole beneath his weight. His skin scorched mine where we touched, branding me.

My dress had twisted around my waist, the bunched fabric cutting into my flesh like barbed wire, leaving nothing but a scrap of ruined lace between his throbbing cock and my aching pussy.

His eyes darkened to obsidian as they fixed on the damp fabric.

"These are pretty," he growled, like gravel over velvet, "but they're in my fucking way."