Page 32 of Only for Him (Starkov Bratva #1)

GISELLE

Cool draft whispers over my belly, and I feel the tickle of my own hair on my shoulders and at my temples.

Roman’s weight pushing me down, his hard cock against my thigh, my slit pulsing and soaked.

The adrenaline rush has left me empty. The chase drained me of all humanity until I’m left as nothing but an empty vessel and a thing that feels and obeys.

And I like it exactly like that.

“Stay still, little viper,” he says. “Eyes on me.”

I don’t move, because he might cut me. The possibility feels far away, distant as an echo.

Is that really what I’m worried about?

Is that really what I’m afraid of?

Or do I keep myself from moving because he told me to, and I’m afraid to disappoint him?

What is happening to me?

Get a fucking grip, Giselle! He has a KNIFE against you!

The blade is cold. My pulse hammers under it, my body poised on the edge of fear and want.

But I still don’t move, not even as panic begins to blur my vision.

“Good girl,” he praises, voice vibrating along the knife’s edge as he drags it slowly across my collarbone.

Yes, I think, horrified at the pleasure that trickles into me from the words. I just want to please him and show him that I’ve earned this.

I’ve earned my own undoing.

He won. He caught me, says the part of me that wants to obey.

But it wasn’t fair! The lights were off, and this is his territory, says the part of me that wants to force his hand. If he’s really going to stab me, he can do it right fucking now instead of making me quiver under his touch.

Again.

But maybe I don’t care if it was fair or not. Maybe I wanted him to win, so I’d wind up here, underneath him. My body at his mercy, my pain or pleasure at his whim.

He sets the knife against my shoulder, lets it drag down the slope of my arm, the point just scratching the top layer of skin.

I stay perfectly still.

I’m scared of what that blade can do to me but I also want it to break skin and flay my flesh the way he flays my soul. Open me wide and enter me, take me down once and for all.

“I’ve watched you, little viper. Twisting your earring like it’s the only thing you own. How you wanted MacDougal dead so badly you fantasized about it.”

He never takes his eyes off mine.

They’ve taken on a slightly nostalgic quality in my addled brain. Familiar, even safe. If I could lean far enough into them, then nothing could hurt me.

Maybe nothing will hurt me.

Maybe he won’t allow it.

I flash back to MacDougal, the way I’d known that whoever killed him had hands that could be trusted.

Roman sees everything about me. He stalks my life, haunts my dreams, kills the people I want to kill, makes me come like no one else ever has or will.

I think I’d cease to exist if he stopped watching me, seeing me.

“Ivan thought he’d get away with touching you,” he growls. “Seeing that was like a bomb going off inside me. You know that, don’t you? You know what a sweet little powder keg you are?”

He draws the knife tip down across my sternum, the curve of my breast, the sensitivity of bruised skin. My nipples ache and tighten as he traces cold metal around them, as sharp as ice melting against our combined body heat.

He moves diagonally across my torso, painting my body from hip to hip, looking down at me like I’m his favorite meal. That look does something unbearable to me and makes my fingers twitch, desperate to bring them to my clit and find some relief.

“And that banker at the bar,” he hisses, working the knife down, slowly, carefully, to my belly. Slow as a fuse. “I’ve told you before, but let me make it clear. I won’t share you.”

The knife flicks down my stomach, drawing a line just above my navel, then lower, stopping at my hipbone. He hesitates, then rotates the blade so the tip is aimed directly between my legs.

I clench away from it, then melt towards it.

I will give in. Tonight, for now, I won’t fight anymore.

I can’t.

I need him too fucking much.

“You tested me, getting drinks with your fed,” he snarls, blade pressing against my flesh like a prelude. He doesn’t nick me, but the point of the blade is so close I can feel it, a threat painted in millimeters. “Then you insist that we should involve him in this.”

He moves the knife again, stroking the inside of my thigh with the flat of the blade. It gets closer and closer to my pussy until it’s mere inches away.

“His name will never enter this house again. You’re mine,” he says, the hand on my throat squeezing , drawing an involuntary sigh from my throat. “And I’ll punish you as many times as I need to until you understand that.”

A tremor moves through me. I can’t stop it.

“Poor little viper,” he murmurs. “Must be hard to stay still when I’m making you feel this good.”

He grins down at me, wicked and dark and everything I’ve ever feared or needed. My body is desperate for him now, screaming against his slowness.

He holds the blade still, but his head moves. Down my body, tongue trailing the same path the knife took, murderous denial as he skims between my breasts, ignoring my aching nipples.

He dips his tongue into my bellybutton and my abs snap, arching my back before I can stop it. I feel his smile now as he goes lower, his stubble tickling my belly, hand still on my throat. He licks each hip, then settles his chin between my thighs, still only parted as much as his legs will allow.

Enough for him to graze the knife on my inner thigh. Enough for his next words to blow against my swollen, dripping slit. My clit throbs, greedy, and I whimper, muscles straining to not spread them wider.

Because he told me to stay still.

“I’m going to show you that I’m the only weapon you need.”

The tip of the knife brushes my slit, collecting the slickness between my lips and applying the lightest pressure—still enough for me to cry out, my body rebelling against patience, the only way I know to ask for more.

He shoves two fingers into my open mouth. My eyes roll back at the taste of him: leather and iron. My response is automatic, innate, a feint of satisfaction as I suck, my tongue lathing his flesh.

I’m falling apart.

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you, little viper?” he taunts, the knife still hovering a whisper away from my dripping pussy, close enough to part my lips, my need sharper than the cool metal.

I whimper as his fingers push deeper into my throat, almost enough to gag, but sucking them in is my only anchor, the only thing keeping me from lowering myself onto his knife just for an ounce of relief.

Tears collect at the edges of my eyes. He is debasing me and I am begging for more.

He likes it when I beg .

“You’ve wanted me to fuck you this whole time.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, my entire world reduced to the throbbing need between my legs and the fullness of his fingers between my teeth.

All I can do is suck harder, swallowing his taste, groaning at how empty I still feel.

The knife edge slides down my thigh, and pressure from the flat of the blade finally peels my legs apart as he shifts, from straddling me to kneeling between my legs.

I’m spread for him now, his nose nudging the top of my slit as his lips pass over my clit. I groan again, and can’t stop myself from grinding down, but he doesn’t allow it. He pulls back, denying me what I need most.

“But I have been fucking you,” he growls, the vibration making me quiver. He’s so close to my aching clit, but I keep my hips still, knowing he’s in charge.

Against my calf, I feel the hard length of his cock. Knowing how close it is, is torture.

All I can think is how satisfying it would be, pressing into me. If I can’t have him filling my pussy, I’d take him in my throat. I start desperately sucking on his fingers, harder than before.

Apparently, that pleases him, because his tongue slides slowly up my slit, lapping at my juices before circling my clit just once, but it’s enough to make my entire body contract. My hips are aching to rise and meet his mouth and I’m greedy for his perfect brand of torture.

When something else slides up to my slit, my eyes widen. I’ve never needed anything more than this, right now. While his tongue continues to tease my clit, his fingers poise at my entrance—but his fingers are too cold, too hard.

It’s not until he’s entering me that I realize it’s not his fingers.

It’s the handle of the knife.

“I’ve been fucking you, ever since I carved your name onto that first body,” he says, pulling back to watch me react, licking his lips, chin shiny with my wetness.

He slides the knife inside, slow, and the shock is total—humiliation and satisfaction, feeding each other. My eyes roll back in my head as I finally get what I’ve been begging for, but not in the way I wanted it.

He whispers, “Not down here in your cunt…”

Roman pulses the handle up and down, shallow at first, then deeper. And harder. He watches my face for every flicker, every tremor, as if he’s cataloguing reactions for future reference.

I want to hate him. I want to kill him. I want to beg him not to stop.

A smoky pressure builds in my belly, winding in tighter and tighter spirals.

He rocks the knife handle in and out, driving it into me like the weapon it is. His fingers slide out of my mouth. I gasp at the loss until he fists my hair and tugs it until I hiss.

The pain sparks nerves that the pleasure couldn’t reach, my body now thrumming with delirious need.

“I’ve been fucking you up here. In your head.”

His hand wraps my throat, thumb resting over the artery, the rest of his fingers spanning the column of muscle.

He doesn’t squeeze. Not yet.

I float there, pinned between pain and promise, every nerve begging for the next inch.

Then he lathes my clit with his tongue.

I gasp, this time unable to stop myself from jerking towards him, the pleasure of his soft, wet mouth blinding me. I’m senseless and rising, pleasure like a bolt of lightning down my spine.

He holds the knife handle inside me, pulsing it, teasing the depths I need him to reach. The frustration wracks my body, spoils my mind.

“This pussy is mine to pleasure or punish,” he snarls, my clit so sensitive now that even his breath against it makes me buck. “No one touches it but me. Not even you, unless I tell you to.”

He grinds the knife handle deeper, torturing me. My knees draw up when he squeezes my throat, demonstrating how fully he possesses my every cell.

“You wanted me to catch you. You always did.” Finally, his mouth returns, sucking at my swollen clit now, grazing his teeth gently across it, his hand on my throat pressing down my scream.

The knife speeds up—then tilts. He finds that spot and my entire body locks. My toes curl. My eyes give me away. He sees everything.

With a whimper, I move my hips, meeting his pace, fucking the knife as hard as its fucking me. Sliding myself against his mouth, pressing as hard as I can, grinding against every inch of tongue he’ll give me.

Each time he sinks the blade, the tension ratchets higher, blooming and building and breaking me down.

“You don’t get to come until I tell you to,” he mouths against my pussy. “Tonight, you’ll come when I claim you.”

I don’t know what he means—until I do.

He speeds up, savaging my body, my muscles taut to the point of snapping. Pleasure ripples up my spine, lapping at my nerves.

So close, so fucking close.

I need more, harder, I need him to fuck me until I erupt. The next thrust is the deepest yet and the world narrows to a pinprick.

His thumb takes over, rubbing my clit until everything sparks.

His hand on my throat tightens, he yanks my head to the side.

He lunges forward and bites my shoulder, sudden and brutal, breaking skin.

I come, violent and blinding, legs kicking, throat making animal sounds.

The heat rips from my toes to my scalp and I feel like a dying star, all the energy I’ve ever had ripping through me at once.

I shake against him, juices flooding as I clench and throb around the handle over and over.

It lasts forever and then, it keeps going.

“We’re not done yet, little viper,” Roman says.

He flips me around, shoves my face into the floor, and thrusts the knife handle mercilessly into me from behind. I scream, the sound echoing in the air, and he fucks me like he’s trying to erase the memory of every other man.

He leans over, lips at my ear. “You’re mine,” he repeats. “No one else.”

He fists my hair, yanking my head up so I have to feel every thrust. Slow, steady, and ruthlessly drawing pleasure and pain together and apart until I’ll never be able to tell them apart.

He keeps going, working me through it, never slowing, never letting up, until I’m sobbing and shaking and begging for it to stop even though I never want it to.

But he doesn’t, for hours, or at least for however long it takes for me to pass out.