Page 49 of His Forced Bride

"I'll never be calm. I'll never accept this. I'll break everything in this house if I have to."

He pins me against the wall, using his body to cage me in.

I'm trapped between his chest and the plaster, breathing hard, my heart racing with adrenaline and fury.

"You're done," he says quietly.

I look up at him, seeing my own reflection in his dark eyes.

My face is flushed, my hair disheveled, my lipstick smeared.

I look wild, desperate, exactly how I feel.

And then I spit in his face.

Saliva hits his cheek, and for a moment we're both perfectly still.

I expect him to strike me, to show his true nature, to prove that underneath the expensive suits and civilized manners, he's exactly the monster I know him to be.

Instead, he wipes his face with the back of his hand and crushes his mouth to mine the same way he did in the church.

The kiss is nothing casual or gentle.

It's claiming and demanding, his tongue pushing past my lips, his teeth nipping at my lower lip until I gasp.

I bite him back, tasting blood, but he doesn't pull away.

If anything, it seems to drive him higher, even when I push at his chest to hold him back.

His hands frame my face, holding me still as he kisses me again and again.

Each one is deeper than the last, more desperate, and I find myself responding despite everything.

My body betrays me, melting against his, and when he presses closer, I can feel how much he wants me.

The large bulge in his pants grinds against my thigh, and I find my hands fisted in the lapels of his suitcoat.

This should all disgust me and make me hate him more, but the warmth in my groin and the fire in my veins have my fingers pulling at his buttons.

I hate him.

I hate this.

I hate how good his mouth feels on mine, how his hands make me shiver, how my treacherous body responds to his touch.

But I can't stop kissing him back.

His tongue is still in my mouth when he growls against me, low and rough, “I married you to own you, Inessa. And tonight, I’m going to fuck you until you remember whose name you wear.”

The words punch heat straight into my core.

I shove against his chest, but my body betrays me, clenching and aching, desperate for friction.

My thighs squeeze together, the throb between them unbearable.

He drags my wrists above my head, pinning them to the wall with one massive hand, while the other tears the bodice of my bloodstained dress.

Fabric rips, beads scatter across the floor.