Page 56 of Nothing More

“Hands on the mirror.”

She didn’t question it – didn’t scoff at the notion of putting handprints on the spotless glass – but slapped her palms to the mirror, straight away, let it hold her weight and keep her balanced.

He took her gown in both hands and yanked it over her hips. Threads snapped. She didn’t reprimand him, didn’t ask him if he knew how much this simple, silk slip had cost. She stepped out of it, when he dragged it away with the toe of his boot. Shifted her hips when he gripped them, tilted them to his liking, when he pressed his hand to the small of her back and made her arch for him.

“Keep watching,” he ordered.

She kept watching, as he gathered her hair in one hand, coiled it around his fist, and held it at her nape, not pulling, but keeping her there, pinned in place, while his other hand reached around and plunged back between her legs.

He worked her ruthlessly. Fingers way up inside her, thumb on her clit. Fucked her with his hand until the lewd squelch of it was louder than her short, panted breaths. He wound her tighter, and tighter, and tighter. Her eyes slipped shut. Pleasure coiled like a spring in the pit of her stomach.

“I told you to watch,” he growled, twisted the hand in her hair, thrust in hard–

“Don’t scream.”

She didn’t, but only because she slapped a hand over her mouth to smother it.

She came like every cliched metaphor: like a freight train, like a rocket bursting, like champagne popping. It was bright, and warm, and overwhelming, and mind-numbing.

She slumped. Caught herself halfway with a hand on the dresser. Felt the cool glass of the mirror on her forehead. Realized belatedly that she was making a low, crooning sound of satisfaction, like a dog whining happily. How embarrassing.

Hands on her. One slick, one dry. Urging her up – holding her up. An arm looped around her waist, and her head was pressed down onto a shoulder.

“Come on.” Toly. That’s right: it was Toly who’d caused this beautiful, drunken state of bliss, in which there was no worry, no anger, no shame, only good-feeling.

She was towed forward, and her feet stumbled over the edge of the rug, but he held her tight, and didn’t let her fall. He smelled good, like cigarettes, and cold nighttime air, like fresh sweat, and the faintest trace of Hugo Boss, lingering behind his ear where he hadn’t showered carefully enough before.

“Here. Down.”

“Hm,” she hummed, intelligently, and let him ease her down to someplace soft and cool. Her bed. He’d pulled the covers back, somehow. Ah, wonderful bed.

She rolled over onto her stomach, pressed her face into the pillow, and luxuriated in the feel of clean Egyptian cotton against her bare, hypersensitive skin. Her pulse thrummed…everywhere, her whole body one big heartbeat, every inch of her blushing and heated. Her sex still spasmed, lightly, remembering the shape of his fingers.

She basked. Maybe even dozed a little.

She heard him moving around the room, quiet as a cat. Tap running. Squeak of that one cabinet in the ensuite that needed oiling. Then his hands were on her again, urging her onto her back.

Raven blinked, and returned to herself. Somewhat. Her vision cleared, and she could see him clearly, perched like a crow on the edge of her bed, hair tucked behind his ears, expression unreadable once more. Something in her dimmed to see that all the heat and promise of his gaze just minutes ago had been recalled, screened, perhaps extinguished completely. Maybe it had all been an act. Maybe he hadn’t wanted her at all, but had only wanted to quiet her, and thought bringing her off the best way to do that.

Slowly, she moved to cover her breasts with her hands.

His mouth twitched sideways. Disapproval? It was the same expressionshewore when she denied that she was hungry, or insisted that she wasn’t rattled.

“Stop,” he said, quietly, gently, and she saw that he held a steaming, damp cloth in one hand.

Before she could form a coherent response – her mouth hadn’t come back online with her brain, it seemed – he began to wipe the slick from her sex and the insides of her thighs.

It felt nice. But she shuddered.

“Well.” Her voice was croaky. “That happened.”

“Yeah.” He finished, stood, and walked back to the bathroom.

Raven stared up at the ceiling a moment, trying to decide how embarrassed she ought to feel. She rolled onto her side and pulled the covers up to her shoulder, cold suddenly, as the sweat cooled. As she thought of just how quickly he’d tucked away what she’d thought had been desire.

It didn’t matter how beautiful she was, how much money she’d made selling that beauty…mob men were dripping in women. Swimming in them. Drowning.

Would he brag? Would he–