Page 39 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

His low growl is followed by the sound of ripping fabric. Cool air hits my overheated skin as the two parts of my ruined dress hang off me, held in place only by the thin spaghetti straps. The gap he’s torn exposes me right down the middle, almost entirely baring me to the waist.

“No bra,” he rasps, devouring my bare breasts with his eyes. “Wicked, wicked woman.”

Rough palms seize my flesh. His touch is firm but also incredibly gentle as he squeezes the tender globes. It makes no sense. How can he be such a contradiction? How can his touch set me on fire and, at the same time, soothe all the burning aches? But that’s exactly what he does.

He lowers his head and draws my left nipple into his mouth, rolling the peak between his lips as he flicks it with his tongue.

A moan explodes from my throat when his teeth graze that sensitive flesh.

Goose bumps break out all over my body while a jolt of adrenaline shoots straight through my veins.

Everything, everything tingles. Spasm after spasm runs down my spine.

Just as when the sensation starts to ebb, he switches his attention to my right nipple.

My eyes roll into the back of my head. “Oh, God!” I scream in ecstasy.

“It didn’t take long to elevate me in your opinion.”

His palms slide up my thighs, caressing, dragging the skirt of my dress along with.

I should be throwing back a snarky comment, but every capable brain cell I have is focused on his lips again. How can they be this soft? How can they be this sinful? How can I keep them fused to mine like this? Devouring. Claiming. Giving.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a shrill alarm is blaring.

Urging me to put a stop to this. To flee from this insane onslaught of dangerous emotions.

Feelings I can’t even begin to comprehend.

Instead, I tighten my arms around Arturo’s neck, lifting myself off the counter as I try to get closer to him.

Rough hands slide under my ass, pulling my skirt upward an inch at a time. Leaving it bundled around my waist. As those hands retreat, exploring the curve of my hips, my thighs, they drag my lacy thong along with them. Gliding it down my trembling legs while Arturo’s mouth stays busy ravaging me.

“Feisty little cat… thawing under my touch.” Sharp teeth sink into my lower lip. “Not so much of an ice princess now, are you, gattina ?”

“Go to hell, Satan.” I seize his lips in a brutal kiss.

“Aw, I’ve been demoted once more.”

His hands trail up my legs again, pushing them apart, inching closer. Closer to my center that’s weeping with need. The tips of his fingers graze my pussy, and I almost shatter.

“Say my name.” A growl. A whisper. A reverent plea.

My core throbs, begging for… something. Something I refuse to acknowledge but can’t suppress. An absolute urgency to have Arturo DeVille possess my body, in every possible carnal way.

With one more nibble to his lips, I lean back. Putting physical distance between us. His devilish eyes bore into mine. Steady. Waiting. Unblinking.

Waiting in vain, because I won’t be saying his name out loud again. Ever.

To use a person’s first name is to give them power. Power over you.

Something I’ve believed since I was a little girl. Something the fairy tales taught me. Something that still scares the shit out of me to this day.

Utter a monster’s name and you’re left in ruin. And he gets to walk away with a piece of you.

“No,” I choke out. You’ve always been and will always be a villain in my story, DeVille. There’s no way I’ll allow you to steal from me. Not my soul. And definitely not my heart.

Anger. Frustration. Torment.

Anger sweeps through me with yet another bout of her defiance. She’s being obstinate, stubborn without any logical reason to be.

Frustration grips me upon the realization that I’d do just about fucking anything to hear Tara say my name again. I nearly goddamn combusted the first time it left her lips. I want—no, need—her to speak it. I’m sick to death of this “DeVille” bullshit.

And the torment of the pure agony of viselike pressure in my dick. The poor bastard is harder than fucking steel, ready to burst because of the insatiable need to be buried inside my wife’s heat.

Fucking awesome. All three emotions are raging within me.

I try to remain calm, to keep my careful composure intact.

All while cursing her once more for scrambling my brain.

Turning me into a stark raving lunatic. The more she denies me, the more I want whatever she’s withholding.

But the truly nutty thing about this is that I fucking enjoy the yearning.

Crave the longing for what I can’t have.

“I promise that you will.” Smiling, I lean closer, licking the edge of her earlobe. “You’ll scream it for me, gattina .”

I plunge my finger into her pussy on her next breath.

The sharp inhale, and then the moan that leaves her… Oh fuck, I could come just from hearing that soft, plaintive sound. My thumb finds her clit, and I start rubbing that sweet bud in slow circles, all while soaking up the sight of her.

Tara’s head is thrown back, her lids half-closed. That gorgeous hair of hers cascades down her back. Her strawberry scent completely engulfs me, driving me utterly insane.

I must possess her.

Must make her mine.

I need… I need to see her unravel.

For me. Only for me.

Her breasts rise and fall with shallow breaths, rapidly increasing in tempo as I press harder on her clit. I push my finger deeper inside her pussy, gently caressing those inner walls. She’s so damn tight. So damn beautiful in her rapture. I’m holding on by a most fragile thread.

My entire hand is already drenched in her tempting juices. I want to taste them, but I can’t. Not yet. I need to torture her a bit more, just as she’s been tormenting me. For weeks. Months, really. This woman has a talent for getting under my skin.

I move my free hand to her delicate neck, wrapping my palm around her throat.

I don’t squeeze, just hold her lightly, letting her ride my finger like a woman possessed.

I can feel every quick draw of her breath and her racing pulse beneath my fingers.

It’s fast. So fucking fast. And her pussy is quivering.

With her eyes half-open, she’s glaring at me. A blend of fury and elation gripping her features. It’s clear as day, she detests that I’m the one who’s bringing her this pleasure, but neither can she deny wanting more of it.

“My name,” I growl, pulling my finger out, only to push it hard and deep inside her again. “Say it, Tara.”

“Satan.” The word gets muffled by her moan as I thrust my finger as far as I can.

Stubborn, willful little creature.

Too damn pigheaded to admit to whom she belongs.

“I’m going to make you come… so hard”—my hold on her neck tightens—“that everyone within a mile of us will hear your scream.” Grasping her chin, I tilt her head so she can fully look at me. “And I’ll do it using just one hand.”

“Not happening.”

There is so much annoyance in those green depths as she glares at me, our faces only inches apart.

“Watch me.” I smile, feeling the telltale tremble of her walls around my still-buried finger.

With my gaze locked on hers, I press right over the epicenter of her clit, right over where she’s the most sensitive. Simultaneously, I let my finger curve inside her pussy, finding that other special spot of hers.

A shrill mewl of pleasure explodes from her throat. The sound is almost my undoing. My cock is weeping in my pants. I’m so hard, it’s fucking painful.

I slide my thumb just a little lower, adding more pressure to her clit while her pussy continues to spasm around my finger.

The satisfaction of seeing my wife fall apart in my hands because of the pleasure I gave her is only rivaled by the feel of her warm cum all over my palm.

She can deny it, but the proof is indisputable.

And watching her lost in rapture almost makes me blow my load.

Holy shit, I’m so turned on and my dick isn’t even in her.

I lower my head and bite her lip. “You were saying?”

No words leave her. She’s shaking so much that I move my hand to the back of her head, worried she’ll bang it on the damn mirror.

Slowly, I slide my other hand out and bring it to my lips.

“If you behave as you should”—I lick her nectar off my finger—“next time, I’ll eat your pussy until you pass out.”

The look she levels me with is filled with disdain. Grasping the shreds of her ruined dress, she clutches them at her breasts as she slips off the counter.

“Thank you for the offer,” she says amid labored breaths. “But there won’t be a next time.”

“Why not?”

She squeezes between me and the vanity to gather her shoes off the floor. When she straightens, there isn’t even an inkling of the blissed out contentment on her face that I’d expect after what just transpired. Only unwavering determination.

“Because, DeVille, I learned to never repeat my mistakes.”

Turning on her heel, she walks out of the bathroom, leaving me surrounded by the most exhilarating aroma on earth. The scent of strawberries and my wife’s orgasm.

My mouth waters.

Fucking hell! As the door shuts in her wake, I barely have enough strength to stifle the urge to storm after her. To catch her and fuck her, properly this time. But I let her run.

Because this is madness.

All of this is goddamned madness!

Swiping my hand across the counter, I send the bottle of whiskey flying. It hits the door with a loud crack and shatters into a gazillion pieces.

Just as my mind did a moment ago.

Damn that woman.