Page 17 of His Verdict

“Look at you,” he says, his voice thick with possessive satisfaction. “Soaking for the man who destroyed you. Coming apart for the devil.”

He presses harder, faster. The pleasure is so intense it’s agonizing. I’m close, so close.

“Come for me,” he commands.

And I do. My body convulses, a shattering, soul-splintering orgasm that rips a scream from my throat. My vision whites out. I sag against the wall, my legs shaking, boneless. He holds me up, his fingers still buried deep inside me, feeling the frantic pulse of my release.

My mind is a fog of aftershocks. When I can finally focus again, he’s watching me, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with his own arousal. He withdraws his fingers slowly, and I whimper at the loss.

I need to get away. I need space to think. I push weakly against his chest and stumble away from the wall, toward thecenter of the vast, empty room. I make it three steps before my legs give out, and I collapse sideways, catching myself on the arm of a low, leather sofa.

He doesn’t follow immediately. He watches me, his chest rising and falling heavily. He slowly unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls up his sleeves, revealing muscular, vein-tracked forearms. Then, his eyes never leaving mine, he reaches down and unfastens his trousers. He pulls his cock out, thick, long, and brutally hard. He strokes it once, twice, a slow, deliberate motion.

“You can hate me,” he says, his voice rough. “You can spend the rest of your tainted little life hating me. But don’t you ever lie to me, or to yourself, about wanting this.”

My gaze is locked on him, on the raw display of his power and his need. He’s right. God help me, the depraved, broken part of me wants this more than I’ve ever wanted anything. My mind screams no, but my body is aching for him, the slick heat between my legs a testament to my surrender.

I try to back away, scrambling onto the couch, but my coordination is gone. I fall back onto the soft leather, a tangled mess of limbs. He’s on me in an instant, a predator pouncing. He doesn’t kiss me. He grabs my ankles, yanking my legs apart and draping them over his shoulders, exposing my core to the cool air and his scorching gaze.

“So beautiful when you’re undone,” he growls, before lowering his head.

His mouth on me is a revelation. If his fingers were an interrogation, his tongue is a full confession. He licks, sucks, and devours me with a ferocity that borders on violence. Heconsumes me. One hand grips my hip, holding me in place, while the other tangles in my pubic hair. He licks a slow, broad stripe from my clit to my entrance, and I cry out, my back arching off the couch.

He laps at me like a man dying of thirst, his tongue flicking against my clit, then plunging deep inside me. The dirty talk is a low, constant rumble against my most sensitive flesh.

“Going to make you scream my fucking name… Let me hear how much you hate this, Olivia… how much you hate begging me to put my cock inside you.”

I’m a wreck, writhing beneath him, my hands gripping the leather cushions. The second orgasm is building even faster than the first, a searing, unstoppable wave. I’m close, so close, on the very precipice of shattering again.

And then he pulls away.

I cry out in protest, a raw, needy sound. He lifts his head, his lips slick with my fluids, a triumphant, predatory glint in his eyes.

“That’s it,” he says, as if I’ve just given him exactly what he wanted. “Beg.”

He moves up my body, positioning himself between my thighs. He grabs my hips, tilting them up, and then he drives into me.

A scream is ripped from my throat, but this time it’s not just pleasure. It’s the agony of being completely, utterly filled. He is huge, stretching me, branding me from the inside out.

He doesn’t give me a moment to adjust. He pulls out almost completely and then slams back into me, a brutal, relentless rhythm. He is fucking me. Not making love. Not a tender act. This is a punishment and a sacrament, a branding, an exorcism of the woman I used to be. My legs are still hooked over his shoulders, my body completely open to him, to his invasion.

The head of his cock grinds against my g-spot with every savage thrust. He leans down, his mouth next to my ear, his voice a harsh, hypnotic litany.

“You’re mine… Every time you come, you belong to me a little more… This is what you are now, Olivia… Mine to ruin… Mine to fuck… Mine to own.”

The friction, the feeling of him filling me, the raw power of his words—it’s too much. My senses are overloaded. The third orgasm hits me like a lightning strike, a blinding, violent cataclysm that arcs through my entire body. I scream his name—Jasper!—and the world goes white, then black. My body convulses around him as I fall into a dark, bottomless unconsciousness, the feeling of him still buried deep inside me the last thing I know.

Chapter 8

My first sensation is the scent. Clean, crisp cotton that smells faintly of cedarwood and spices. It’s a scent I now know intimately, a scent that was pressed against my face, in my hair, on my skin…

My eyes fly open.

The world comes into focus slowly. The light is soft and gray, filtered through an overcast sky. I’m not in my own bed. I’m cocooned in a cloud of impossibly soft sheets and a heavy duvet, the kind that feels like being submerged in tranquil water. The bed is enormous, a king-sized island in an ocean of a room.

Then, the second sensation hits: a deep, profound ache.

It’s in every muscle, a soreness that speaks of being thoroughly used. But the epicenter of the ache is between my legs. A tender, swollen, throbbing reminder. I close my eyes, and the memories come flooding back, not in a gentle tide, but as a brutal, crashing wave.