Page 56 of Promise of Destruction (Destruction & Vengeance Duet #1)

“Declan,” I shake my head, trying to toss off the apology on my tongue. He doesn’t deserve it, but he didn’t deserve the article either.

I was frustrated, tired, and angry after having all of my concerns dismissed despite all of the rumors about him. Rumors were very different from evidence, everyone said. So, I found my own—or rather, I made something out of nothing.

There’s no shortage of scorned former lovers—girls he knew in college, saying that he hadn’t had two pennies to rub together, women who had thought that going home with him would be more than a one-night thing, the whispers of making his money in underground ways, the fact that his business figures and profits are never published.

His company isn’t even publicly traded in stocks.

When I had seen Declan Evers as a monster capable of murder and assault, it had been easy to manipulate the pieces I needed to make them fit into the picture of a man ruthless and willing to do anything to maintain power.

“I shouldn’t have written that,” I say, not wanting to talk in specifics. I shouldn’t have written any of it, but I especially don’t want to get into the more salacious claims.

“No,” he agrees, tossing my phone on the neatly-made bed behind me. My eyes follow it, wondering if there’s something more I’m missing. “But you did.”

I swallow, having no response for that.

I’m staring at him; we’re so close that I can’t see from my peripherals when his touch lands on my back, making me jump. The contact chases chills all down my arms. My entire body puckers at it, my nipples drawing tight across the delicate fabric of my shirt.

I don’t move, don’t speak—just let his touch explore, tracing my spine up, up, up.

He’s surely figured out I caved and undressed a bit.

I’m more embarrassed by that than I am when he continues to trace my spine, lifting my shirt higher and higher until he peels it off of me, throwing that in the corner without ceremony.

He says nothing as he takes me in, totally bare on the top, my lounge pants slung low on my hips.

I let him look a minute since it’s not like he hasn’t already seen me naked, waiting for him to prove his point. But there’s something different in his gaze as he appraises me wordlessly, and it has me feeling particularly vulnerable.

When he doesn’t say anything, I move to fold my arms across myself.

Declan stops me, his hands closing around each of my wrists and tugging them down to my sides, prying a ragged breath from my chest.

My heart is beating so fast, I’m sure he can hear it in the silence, if not see the faint imprint of it trying to escape it’s cage.

When I glance up to meet his gaze, it’s hungry.

I know what’s about to happen before it does, and I welcome it. He takes a few strides, pushing me back toward the bed, his body pressed into mine. The cotton of his tee shirt drags over my nipples, drawing the faintest stirrings of pleasure.

It’s a short fall from where I stand to the bed, but Declan releases my wrists and cradles my head so that it doesn’t slam against the mattress when he pushes me backwards over it and follows, hovering over me so that he can see everything. I wonder if he can see my desperation—if it’s obvious.

“You are such a beautiful disaster, Soren Palmer.”

I don’t know if it’s his voice or his words that make my back arch, but it does, unbidden, offering up myself to him.

He takes what I’m offering, his mouth closing over one nipple.

The warmth is soothing, gentle—the total opposite of what he does to the other one, pinching it between his fingers so that it stands at attention, taking the punishment he’s giving it.

It’s only the beginning of the punishment I hope he’s going to give me; I want his anger. I want the pain he can give me.

Like he’s read my mind, his tongue slips away from the peak he’s stiffened. I don’t get a chance to mourn its loss before his teeth sink into the flesh, too brutal to be gentle, too gentle to be painful.

I gasp as the pain blossoms in me, and he soothes it away with his tongue before moving his mouth to my other breast, teasing, coaxing.

I’m on edge, braced for another bite, but it never comes. Instead, he traces it like it’s a delicate thing that may dissolve under his tongue, pinching and rolling it into an abused nub—pain twining with pleasure.

The combination is heady, erotic. I’ve had pain during what was supposed to be pleasure before—more times than I cared to admit, truly.

The uncomfortable friction of resistance, the ache of not getting what I needed, the accidental catching of my hair under a pillow…

and then all of the problems that started twilight of my marriage.

But this? The intentional introduction of suffering in the midst of this ease—this is another thing entirely.

When I try to press my legs together, to ease some of the ache there, I feel how slippery wet I am… for him.

Declan is giving me a pleasure he told me he wouldn’t, but already it’s better than anything I’ve felt—better than a sweaty hand grasping pathetically at my breast and thick fingers pushing into me dry.

The thought makes me hate myself. Vincent was my husband—my husband who I loved, who loved me, who was my first and last and everything in between. I hadn’t hated sex with him when we were having it—other than the few times I wasn’t in the mood but caved anyway.

So why is my body trying to convince me that it hadn’t been like this?

Because it wasn’t.

I try to drown out the voice in my head, to soak in the pleasure as Declan releases my nipple, his hands skating down to the edge of the fabric on my hips. There’s no awkward fumbling, no hesitation when he reaches between my legs, which part far too easily for him.

One finger swipes along my seam, testing my wetness. I can imagine the smirk on his face, but it’s swallowed in a wave of pleasure when he thrusts his fingers inside me.

Oh fuck.

I draw in a breath so deep I think my lungs may explode; his fingers slide slowly out of me, leaving me missing them before they’re gone.

When it’s just the tips, he drives back in, and I press myself further against the mattress, lifting my hips to him, granting him permission for the thing he’s already doing.

“You’re so wet, Soren.” He says, his breath whispering over my lips. “So fucking wet for me.” He sounds a little strained, like he’s struggling, but the hint of mockery is still there.

He loves the power he has over me. In this moment, so do I. In this moment, I want to give him all of me and who gives a damn what he does with it, I’ll deal with the rest later.

I moan as he strokes me, coaxing more of my slick wetness onto his fingers. It feels so good, little flurries of pleasure swirling deep inside me.

I recognize the pleasure building deep within— a sensation that only gets built this intense in the last year since Marissa cheekily bought me a vibrator. It’s not the first time she did, but I threw the last one away when Vin saw it and got weird about it.

Declan ruined my last orgasm, taking away some of it’s power by watching me through my window.

Before that, it hadn’t been that long since I’d felt this intense building, since I’d gotten the release.

I’m acting like it though—I’m acting like a sex-starved whore, desperate but not willing to ask for what I want.

I lift my hips more and feel the smirk on his face. My eyes snap open, self-conscious.

“You’re watching me?” I accuse, feeling acutely more exposed than I had a moment ago.

His mouth has been on my breast, his fingers are pumping inside me, drawing a series of moans and thick breaths from me, but I feel suddenly far more vulnerable, knowing he’s studying my face, watching each of his touches play out on it.

“You should watch yourself, too.” He says. “It’s pretty fantastic.”

I want to argue with him, to tell him to close his eyes, but his thumb brushes over the sensitive nerves between my legs.

Disarmed, I fall back and let him circle me with his thumb.

It disappears every couple of seconds so he can thrust back into me, then lands again on my swollen clit, rubbing gentle circles around it.

I moan— loud —and hear the rush of air from him that passes as a laugh.

My eyes snap open to find his waiting expectantly.

He stops thrusting and focuses his attention on dragging his thumb over me, building the need in me. He wants me to keep my eyes locked on his, doesn’t want me to look away, but it’s too intense. I squeeze my eyes shut at the first sign that I’m nearing the edge, and Declan slows.

I immediately lose the progress, just as if I let go of a rope and slipped back a few feet.

“Soren,” he says, prompting me to open my eyes again.

When I do what he wants, he resumes the pace he’d had before like he’d never stopped. Guess there are some benefits to that one track mind.

It’s hard not to close my eyes—the pleasure doesn’t match up with the room around us. I feel like we’re lying on a cloud, somewhere no one will ever be able to reach us. I let my head drop but crane my neck so that he knows I’m still watching him ruin me, his willing victim.

Don’t stop.

“Say my name, Soren.” He sounds like he’s swallowed a bunch of rocks, and his voice is reaching out through the spaces between them. It’s hoarse, strained.

He wants me as bad as I want him right now— need him.

“Call out for the man who’s going to ruin this pussy before he ruins you completely.”

Outrage flutters beneath the pleasure, my brain fighting with my body at what I’m allowing him to do, what I want him to do.

But saying his name feels like an admission of defeat. Calling his name in pleasure feels like I’d be forgiving him for forcing his way into my life, for buying the company I work for, for stalking me, for watching through my windows, forcing me to join him on this trip.

Saying his name feels like defeat.

I’m so close to the edge, so damn close to falling off of it. I could say his name, two maybe three times, and then I’d get the relief I need.

But then what? Spend the rest of our trip together knowing that I let him win, that I’m helpless against him, that I’m a needy whore?

No.

I don’t say it, and his touch disappears, the way I knew it would. I clench my jaw before I can cry his name out in desperation.

Declan knows I’m not breaking yet.

He reaches above my head, grabs my shirt and wipes his hands on it, streaking the fabric with my own need. He pushes off of me, throwing the balled-up shirt so it falls in my lap as I push myself to sitting.

If I thought I’ve been embarrassed even once since I met Declan, I was wrong. I was so wrong.

This humiliation is so much worse than anything.

This punishment, I hate.