Page 18 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

He pressed his mouth to my neck, not kissing, just breathing, letting the heat of his body seep into mine.

His hand slid between my trembling legs, not forcing, not rushing—just letting his knuckles graze the inside of my thigh, deliberate and unbearably slow.

The tension between my legs pulsed with every breath, my skin hypersensitive, my mind splintering between the need to run and the instinct to lean in.

He chuckled against my throat, a low, decadent sound. "You were so soft when you came on my fingers. So sweet. You moaned my name like a prayer, and now you’re pretending you didn’t love it."

I tried to twist away, but his hand flattened against my lower belly, holding me there, his palm heavy and possessive.

"You’re going to remember every second soon. Every pulse, every breath, every way you begged without even knowing you were doing it. But for now... we can take our time."

His fingers dipped lower, just brushing the heat at the center of me through the thin cotton. I bit my lip, hard, to stop the sound that tried to escape.

"Still fighting it," he whispered, dragging his mouth along the edge of my jaw. "Even when you’re soaked and trembling."

His fingers pressed just slightly more firmly, and my head fell back with a soft gasp I couldn’t contain.

He smiled against my skin. "There she is."

And I hated that I didn’t pull away.

I should’ve shoved him off. Should’ve screamed.

Should’ve clawed at his face, kicked at his knees, done something.

But my legs wouldn’t move, and my throat was too tight to form a sound.

My body, traitorous and trembling, leaned into the heat of him instead.

Into the way his breath ghosted over my jaw, how his fingers teased the edge of my waistband like a promise I wasn’t ready to hear.

He didn’t force. He didn’t need to.

His hands were confident, slow, methodical. One dragged up my spine to the back of my neck, curling into the hair at my nape and tugging my head back with a quiet sort of reverence. Not hard—but enough to make me gasp. Enough to make my eyes flutter closed.

"You hate how good this feels," he murmured. "I can see it all over your face. Poor thing. Confused by how badly she wants the man holding her captive."

His mouth was at my throat now, lips brushing, tongue flicking at my pulse. My hands found the front of his shirt—not to push him away, but just to hold on. My fingers curled in the fine wool, anchoring myself to something solid while everything inside me splintered.

His other hand slipped between us, fingers splaying low across my belly, the heat of his palm a brand against my skin.

"Still soaked," he said, voice rough with satisfaction. "You can’t lie to me, Grace. You want this.”

My whole body flushed, a searing wave of humiliation burning beneath my skin. I tried to turn my face away, but he caught my jaw, guiding me back to him.

"Look at me."

Fuck, I didn’t want to. But I did.

His eyes were dark, greedy, devouring every flicker of shame that danced across my face. He watched the tremble of my lips, the way my lashes fluttered against flushed cheeks.

"You act like this is a surprise," he murmured, voice velvet and filth. "But your body remembers. Doesn’t matter what your mind tells you—you’re already there."

I shook my head, tried to push him back. But my fingers didn’t follow through. They curled tighter into his shirt.

His thumb traced a slow circle over my lower belly, teasing the skin just beneath my waistband. "Still pretending you don’t want it? Even now?"

He dropped his mouth to the curve of my jaw, kissing it, licking it, biting just enough to make me gasp. His body pressed harder against mine, trapping me fully between the wall and his heat.

"Say you hate me," he said, voice low, coaxing. "Say anything. Just don’t pretend you don’t want me."

"I hate you," I breathed, but the words were paper-thin.

His hand slipped beneath my waistband, slow and assured. Fingers brushed lower. I jerked, the touch lightning and shame.

"And yet," he murmured, sliding two fingers along my slickness, "you’re still dripping."

My eyes fluttered shut. My knees threatened to give.

"This pussy was made to come on my fingers, and it knows it."

My whole body flinched, arched, melted.

"You can continue to lie with your mouth, Grace. But your dripping cunt tells the truth."

His fingers found my clit, circling it with maddening patience. My hips bucked. A broken sound escaped me—somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

"Still telling yourself it’s not real? That this isn’t what you want?"

I tried to deny it. I did. But my body moved without permission, chasing the pressure of his hand, grinding helplessly into his touch.

"That’s right," he breathed, fingers stroking deeper now, wetter, filthier. "Let me show you what your mouth won’t say."

My nails dug into his chest. My body burned with shame and need and something hotter, darker. A forbidden hunger clawing its way up from somewhere buried.

"You're so tight," he growled. "So fucking warm. Look at you—soaking for the man you claim to despise."

My head fell back against the wall, eyes shut tight, trying to escape the pressure, the heat, the truth.

He pressed his forehead to mine, panting, breath mixing with mine in the narrow space between us.

"You’re going to come for me again," he said, fingers working with ruthless precision. "And next time, it’ll be on my cock."

I shattered.

Silent, breathless, wrung out by the tension that had coiled for days. My whole body clenched, legs trembling violently as he held me up through the storm of it. I came on his hand, sobbing out a sound I didn’t recognize—something desperate, something raw.

He held me there, breathing hard, fingers still buried deep.

Silent, breathless, wrung out by the tension that had coiled for days. My whole body clenched, legs trembling violently as he held me up through the storm of it. I came on his hand, sobbing out a sound I didn’t recognize. Something desperate, something raw.

He held me there, breathing hard, fingers still buried deep.

"So fucking sweet when you break like that," he went on, lips brushing the sweat-damp skin at my temple. "You try to hate me, I know you do. But this?" He flexed his fingers inside me, slow and possessive, making my breath hitch. "This is the truth."

I gasped, one hand scrabbling against his chest. Not to push. Just to hold. To survive it.

"And I haven’t even put my cock in you yet. Haven’t stretched you open, haven’t felt you clench around me while you scream my name. And still, you're shaking like I already have."

He kissed the side of my neck, slow and taunting. "Are you going to cry when I put my mouth on you? Or are you going to beg first?"

"Fuck you," I managed to grit out.

He chuckled, dark and low. "Gladly, sweetheart."

His fingers slipped out at last, coated in slick. He lifted them to his lips and sucked one between his teeth like it was honey, groaning low in his throat.

"This pussy was made for me," he said, licking the taste of me off his fingers. “You taste like madness, Grace. Like the reason I won’t ever let you go.”

He let me slide down the wall, just far enough that my feet touched the floor again, though my legs threatened to give.

"Still hate me?" he asked.

"Yes," I whispered, breath trembling.

He grinned. "Good. Keep telling yourself that while I make you come again."

His mouth grazed mine. Close enough to taste, not enough to claim. He waited. Let me feel the threat of it. The promise. I wanted to pull away. I almost did. But I didn’t. Couldn’t.

His hands were on my hips now, slow and possessive.

He moved me without force, just certainty, guiding me back until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the velvet chaise in the corner.

My legs gave, but not without a fight. I tried to plant my feet, to hold ground, but his grip only tightened, his fingers biting in.

“You going to run again?” he asked, voice low and dark. “Because I swear to God, I’ll chase you every time.”

I shoved at his chest, a weak, futile push. “Get off.”

He laughed—a rough, breathy sound. “You fight so pretty, Grace. All that heat, all that spit and fire. Makes me want to fuck the defiance right out of you.”

He sank to his knees in front of me.

His palms slid up my thighs, thumbs stroking slow, hypnotic circles just above the place I throbbed. I jerked away, or tried to, but he only grinned and grabbed harder.

“You break so fucking beautifully for me,” he murmured, voice rougher now. “But it’s even better when you try not to.”

My tank top was gone before I realized he’d moved. He didn’t rip it. Just peeled it away like something precious. Reverent. Slow. I should’ve hated how exposed I felt. But all I felt was heat.

He didn’t speak again. Just lowered his mouth to my skin, trailing heat and tension as he kissed his way down. Lips at my breast, at my stomach, at the waistband of my leggings. Then lower.

I tried to twist away. He grabbed my hips and yanked me down.

"Still fighting? Good. Let me show you what surrender really feels like."

He buried his face between my thighs.

My hips jolted. A sound broke from my throat—half sob, half moan. He hummed low, pleased, his tongue working in slow, devastating circles. Every pass of it was deliberate, methodical, like he was unmaking me on purpose.

I tried to close my legs. He forced them open. “Uh-uh. You’re going to take this. Every fucking second of it.”

He didn’t stop when I came. He just groaned against me, dragging it out until I was shaking, limp, panting. Still he didn’t stop. He licked me through every twitch, every tremor, hands keeping me open while I writhed.

"You belong to me," he said, breath hot against slick skin. "My sweet, wrecked little thing."

When he stood, he didn’t speak right away. He just looked down at me, his eyes darker than I’d ever seen them. Hungry. His belt came loose with a sound that made my stomach drop.

I turned my face away. His hand caught my jaw and forced me back to him.

“Don’t you dare hide from me now. You want rough? I’ll give you rough.”

His cock was thick, flushed, already leaking. He didn’t stroke it. Just let it rest heavy in his hand as he stepped close.

I tried to squeeze my thighs together. Too late.

He nudged them apart with a knee. Hard.

“No more lies,” he said, voice ragged. “Not when you're still dripping.”

He lined himself up and slid the head along my slickness, slow and taunting.

I gasped, spine arching. He didn’t push in.

“Look at me.”

I did. I couldn’t not.

“Say it.”

“I hate you,” I whispered.

He smiled. Dark. Triumphant.

Then he pushed inside.