Page 38 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

RAFE

S he was shaking.

Barely, but I could see it—in the fine tremble of her thighs, the strain in her arms, the way her breath hitched in her chest with every second I didn’t move.

I hadn’t touched her in minutes. Not really.

Just the backs of my fingers, a kiss of heat, the kind of contact that says I could without ever following through.

And still she held. Her hands stayed where I left them.

Her body stayed open. Exposed. Willing. My rules ringing in her head loud enough to drown out everything else.

And fuck, it undid me.

She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t doing this to prove anything. She was doing it because I asked—and that was what made it unbearable. That she’d give me this much without being forced. That she trusted me enough to let me see her like this—vulnerable, desperate, and silent.

My control had never felt more fragile.

I stayed on my knees between her thighs, hands braced against the mattress, not touching her yet.

Not even hovering. Just watching. I could smell her—sweet and wrecked, the scent of arousal soaked into her skin, into the lace that clung to her cunt like it belonged there.

I hadn’t pulled it aside. Hadn’t slipped beneath it.

Hadn’t earned that yet. But I was going to. The second I gave myself permission.

And maybe not even then.

Her breathing shifted again. Faster. Shallower. I could see her fighting the instinct to close her legs, to reach for me, to beg. Her body was screaming. But her discipline hadn’t cracked. She hadn’t moved since the last time I counted. Not even a twitch.

I brought my hand to her ankle and dragged it slowly up the inside of her calf, her thigh, over the rise of her hip.

Her skin burned beneath my palm, and I felt the faintest ripple of tension travel up her leg, like her body wanted to buck but knew better.

I curved my hand around her waist and held her there.

Not to restrain her. Just to feel her shake.

Just to feel the quiet storm she was keeping inside.

Her panties were ruined. Black lace, sheer with heat, soaked straight through.

I could see everything. The slick parting of her folds, the tight throb of her clit barely hidden beneath fabric that was closer to lingerie than clothing.

I didn’t touch. I just let my hand rest low on her stomach, thumb brushing near the waistband.

And that’s when it came back to me…

Her hand. On mine. Pulling it up her body, guiding it to her throat. That whisper of breath, half-choked and fearless.

I want it rough.

My grip shifted before I could stop it. One hand sliding from her waist to her neck, not hard, not fast—just there .

Just enough for her to feel the weight of it.

Her eyes locked on mine instantly, wide, alert, wanting.

Her pulse jumped beneath my palm, and her legs spread wider, involuntary and instinctive, like she was giving me access I hadn’t asked for yet.

I didn’t press.

Not yet.

I kept my fingers loose, my thumb resting at the hollow of her throat, and leaned down until my mouth hovered over hers.

“You want it rough?” I asked, low and quiet, not teasing. Real.

She nodded once. Barely. Her lips trembled like she wanted to answer, but she didn’t trust her voice.

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “God—yes, Rafe.”

That was all I needed.

I tightened my grip.

Not hard. Not cruel. But enough to make her breath catch. Enough to make her feel the edge of it.

And beneath my other hand—still resting over her stomach—I felt the lace grow hotter. Wetter. Her body answered before her mouth ever did.

She loved this.

The pressure. The weight. The fact that she was giving herself to someone who hadn’t earned her screams yet…but would. The trust of it made my throat burn.

I kept the pressure steady and brought my other hand lower.

My fingers skimmed down to that ruined lace, dragging over the center seam with just enough pressure to let her feel it.

I didn’t push harder. I didn’t slip underneath.

I rubbed her slow, circular, and she gasped beneath me, back arched, mouth open.

Still, her hands didn’t move.

I watched her the entire time. Watched her mouth, her chest, the tight flex of her inner thighs as she fought not to grind against my hand.

“You’re not going to come for me,” I said, voice rough, “you’re going to shatter .”

She whimpered.

I pressed my thumb harder into her throat.

Her moan fractured against my hand, hips grinding instinctively toward pressure I wasn’t giving. I felt her pulse hammering beneath my fingers, every muscle pulled tight, body slick and desperate and trying so hard to obey . And it wrecked me.

She was right there. Right fucking there.

Her thighs were shaking. Her breath shallow.

Her pussy soaked through the lace and pulsing beneath my touch.

One more stroke—one little push—and she’d fall apart for me.

She’d scream my name. She’d soak the sheets.

She’d give me that slick, shattered surrender I’d been chasing from the second I walked into this room.

But I didn’t give it to her.

Not because I wanted to punish her.

Because I wanted more.

I wanted to stretch this need until it rewired her. I wanted to hold her on the edge so long she forgot there’d ever been a world without me in it. I wanted to be the only thing her body remembered how to want.

So I stilled my hand.

Her breath caught. Her hips jerked once—then locked down hard.

She didn’t cry out. Didn’t beg. She held it . All of it. Even now.

And that did more to me than her orgasm ever could have.

I dragged my hand up her stomach, slow, fingers light enough to make her flinch.

Her nipples were tight, flushed, begging to be bitten—and they’d get it, but not yet.

I wasn’t going to rush. I wasn’t going to lose my grip now.

She’d given me her stillness, her silence, her absolute, terrifying willingness.

Now I was going to give her worship.

The kind that hurt .

I leaned in and licked a single, lazy stripe across one nipple, then blew cool air across it and watched her entire body shudder beneath me. Her hands curled tighter against the sheets, but they didn’t move. Her back arched—then settled. She was trying. Fuck, she was trying so hard.

I pinched.

Just enough to make her cry out.

Then soothed it with my tongue, slow and wet and full.

Her breath was a prayer I hadn’t earned yet.

I moved to the other side and gave it the same treatment—pinch, tease, suck, lick—and then slid my hand between her legs again, palm to lace, feeling how much wetter she was than before. And still I didn’t push under. Still I didn’t give her skin-to-skin.

Because when I finally did, I wanted her to break .

Not from force.

From the unbearable weight of being wanted like this.

I kissed down her stomach, tongue dragging slow over silk-slick skin, and when I reached the edge of the lace again, I paused.

Her breathing was ragged. Her thighs trembling.

Still holding.

Still mine.

So I looked up at her, lips just brushing the heat at the center of her.

And said, voice low and hungry?—

“Now you’re ready.”

The scent of her—wet, feral, intoxicating—hit me like blood in the water.

Her thighs trembled on either side of my shoulders, and I watched them flex, watched the muscles twitch, her body trying to hold its shape when all it wanted to do was collapse.

I let my lips skim just above her clit, not touching.

Not fully. Just enough heat to make her sob.

“Rafe,” she gasped, voice cracked open, throat raw from silence.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. She wasn’t speaking for me.

She was speaking because it was all she could do to keep from screaming.

Every inch of her was begging—and I hadn’t even touched her properly.

Her palms were still pressed flat to the sheets, obedient and open and still.

And that stillness? That willpower? That absolute devotion to my control?

It undid me.

I let my mouth drop the last inch, pulled the soaked lace to the side, and let my tongue finally— finally —make contact.

One slow drag. One heavy stroke of heat and pressure, tongue wide and unrelenting over the swollen bundle of nerves that had been aching for me since I walked in the room.

Her moan was instant. Full-bodied. Ripped from her lungs like it had been caged.

Her thighs clamped hard around my head before she caught herself and forced them open again.

The discipline it took to hold still through that—I felt it crack like lightning down my spine.

And I didn’t give her reprieve.

I dragged my tongue through her again. And again. Slow. Deep. Cruel. I wasn’t trying to make her come.

I was trying to make her need to.

“Fuck,” I breathed. “You’re holding for me.”

She nodded, frantic.

“That’s power, Grace. That’s yours. Not mine. You’re doing this to yourself because you want me to feel what it means to own you.”

She gasped—raw, cracked, shivering. Her chest heaved like she couldn’t breathe, but I knew better. She was breathing me. My voice. My mouth. My fucking restraint.

I sucked her clit between my lips, tongue relentless, pressure precise.

She cried out, back arching again, muscles shaking like she was trying to outrun the orgasm building at the base of her spine.

I didn’t let up. I licked and sucked and circled until her legs were trembling so hard I thought she might break.

But she didn’t.

She held.

And I tore myself away just before she could fall over the edge.

She sobbed—frustrated, shattered, needing.

I was almost to my limit—jaw aching, cock hard enough to bruise, breath ragged from holding myself back—and I was just about to pull away again, to deny her one more time, when I tasted it.

Not slick.

Release.

I stilled.

It wasn’t just arousal soaking my tongue anymore. It was deeper. Hotter. The way her thighs clenched. The way her cunt pulsed under my tongue. The taste of it—just enough salt, just enough sweetness, like something that had already snapped.

My mouth hovered, breath searing against her clit as I lifted my eyes to hers.

“You came.”

Her whole body froze.

Not in fear.

In guilt.

In panic.

Her mouth parted. Her fingers twitched against the sheets. She didn’t deny it—she couldn’t —and that honesty did something to me I wasn’t ready for.

“You came without permission.” My voice was quiet. Measured. Every syllable sharp as a blade.

“I—Rafe, I didn’t mean to—I tried—” Her voice cracked like glass.

I sat back on my heels, wiping my mouth slowly, fingers dragging down her trembling thigh. I watched her unravel with nothing but my eyes.

“You tried.” I nodded once. “But your body still gave in.”

She flinched. Chest heaving. Eyes shining.

“And do you know what that tells me?”

She didn’t answer. Just looked at me like she expected to be punished. And maybe she should’ve been. But fuck, I wasn’t going to let her off that easy.

“It tells me I already own you,” I said, low and brutal. “So deep in your head you don’t even need my permission anymore. You come because I exist. ”

Her breath caught.

And still, her hands hadn’t moved.

“Good girl,” I murmured, leaning in until my mouth brushed her ear. “But good doesn’t mean free. ”

She gasped, and I didn’t give her time to think.

I slapped her thigh—hard. Once. Sharp enough to make her jolt and cry out. Sharp enough to leave a mark.

Then I kissed the sting. Slow. Reverent.

“That’s for breaking the rules.”

Another slap. The other thigh this time. Her moan was wrecked, her hips twitching—but she didn’t pull away.

“And that one?” I whispered. “That’s for making me need to taste you again.”

I dragged the ruined lace aside with both hands this time, peeled it down her legs, slow and deliberate.

“You came without permission, Grace.” My voice was pure heat. “Now you’re going to come again—with mine. And you’re going to feel every second of what it means to belong to me.”

I stood, unbuckled my belt in silence, and watched her eyes darken the second she heard the sound. She didn’t move. Didn’t beg. Didn’t even breathe. Just stayed right where I’d left her. Naked, marked, soaked, and waiting.

She’d already come once without permission.

Now I was going to fuck her until she forgot what it felt like to come any other way.

I wrapped a hand around her jaw, dragged her gaze back to mine, and leaned in close enough to taste her breath.

“No more rules,” I said, voice low and final. “Now I take what’s mine.”