Page 41

Chapter 40

Seanna

His kiss is rough and consuming, like he’s trying to brand himself into my mouth—like he’s daring me to forget who he is and remember only how he tastes.

I shove at his chest mid-kiss, not because I want him to stop but because I hate how much I don’t want him to stop. “I hate you,” I breathe, lips brushing his with every syllable.

“You hate a lot of things,” he murmurs, voice dark and amused as he trails his mouth down the curve of my neck. “Doesn’t stop you from wrapping your legs around them.”

My fingers tangle in the front of his shirt. “Fuck you.”

He grins against my skin, low and unbothered. “You already did.”

That earns him a bite—sharp, just below his jaw. He hisses through his teeth and presses harder against me, thigh slotting between mine like he owns the space. Maybe he does.

He tastes like sugar and indulgence, and I hate how much I melt into it.

“You’re still such a smug asshole.”

He hums, dragging his nose along my collarbone. “You’re still letting me touch you.”

“Temporary lapse in judgment.”

“Sure,” he says, voice dipping into something deeper, “just like the way you moaned last night. Just like how you begged.”

“I didn’t—”

“You begged, Seanna. Don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to yourself .”

God. I want to hit him. I want to kiss him harder.

I settle for digging my nails into his shoulder.

He growls low in his chest, hands sliding beneath the hem of the oversized shirt I threw on this morning.

He leans in again, lips brushing my ear. “You remember what Ruin said?”

I do.

Too well.

“If you wear something like this,” Rule murmurs, fingers sliding up the hem, “then be prepared for one of us to strip it off you.”

I snort, but my voice cracks when I speak. “You’re so fucking obsessed.”

“And you’re still standing here,” he replies, “waiting for me to do it.”

“Weren’t you making pastries?”

“You don’t care about the pastry,” he says, voice low, teasing. “You only ever cared about the filling.”

I feel his hands gather the shirt. He lifts it—slow, measured—like he wants to memorize every inch of skin as it’s revealed. Up my ribs. Over my arms. And gone.

Then he freezes.

His eyes roam over the lingerie like he’s seeing something he was never supposed to. His breath catches, and everything in him stills.

“Fuck me,” he says under his breath.

I tilt my head, smug. “Already did.”

His gaze snaps back to mine, heat flickering wild behind it.

Then he moves.

He grabs me by the hips and lifts me like I weigh nothing, setting me down on the cold marble countertop. I hiss through my teeth—the shock of it stealing my breath—but he’s already stepping in close, his body heat chasing away the sting of cold.

His gloved hands settle on my thighs—but only for a moment.

He peels off the gloves one at a time. Slow. Deliberate. The sound of the leather sliding off is practically pornographic.

He tosses them aside.

Then his bare hands—warm, rough, real —slide up my thighs with reverent precision, tugging me to the edge and spreading me open just enough to make me feel utterly exposed. I’m forced to brace my hands behind me on the marble counter to not fall back.

He doesn’t strip the lingerie off me.

Instead, he drags two fingers beneath the thin strip of lace covering my pussy, hooking the fabric to the side with almost obscene care— because he wants to see me wearing it while he wrecks me.

He drags his thumb lightly across my exposed folds, humming under his breath like he’s already savoring me.

And then he reaches for the bowl.

The one filled with cherry cream cheese filling.

I blink at him, breath hitching as he dips two fingers into the mixture—cool and pale pink, thick and sweet.

“You like it messy,” he murmurs, gaze locked on me. “Don’t you?”

I don’t get the chance to answer.

Because he drops to his knees.

The room feels suddenly too quiet, too heavy.

Then he paints a line of pastry filling across the inside of my thigh—slow, obscenely slow.

The contrast is instant. Cool cream cheese filling on heated skin. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

He leans in, tongue sliding along the trail he made—licking it off like I’m dessert he’s been waiting far too long to taste.

“You taste better than the filling,” he says between licks, voice thick and low, lips brushing against my inner thigh.

I open my mouth, maybe to insult him, maybe to moan, but then he does it again. Another line. Another slow, decadent drag of his tongue that leaves me shaking.

His hands spread my thighs even further, holding me open for him. My lingerie still half-twisted to the side, lace biting into my hips. And then he’s there—mouth on me, tongue parting me, licking into me with slow, devastating precision.

“Fuck,” I whisper, head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut as heat floods every inch of my body.

He groans against me, tongue working deeper, slower. Then faster. Like he’s trying to map me from the inside out. Like my pleasure is the only thing that matters.

When he drags two fingers back through the bowl and pushes them inside me—sweet and slick and devastating—I nearly fall back on the counter.

He moves them in and out slowly, curling them perfectly against that spot that makes my whole body tighten.

I move a hand to fist his hair, tugging. “God, Rule—”

“I told you,” he growls against my soaked, swollen clit, “you only like the filling.”

And then he doubles down.

He eats me with a desperation that borders on madness. Like he’s starving. Like he’s waited years for this moment and he’s going to savor every goddamn second . His tongue flicks over my clit again and again, and when I gasp, he moans into me like my pleasure fuels him.

My thighs clamp around his head and he doesn’t pull away. He grips my hips tighter, anchoring me to his mouth, fucking me with his tongue, grinding his mouth against me like he needs it as much as I do until I’m spiraling.

When I come, it’s not gentle. It’s brutal. Messy.

It rips through me like a detonation—sharp, wild, wrung from someplace deeper than I want to admit exists.

And he doesn’t stop.

He licks me through it, slow and thorough, collecting every drop like it’s owed to him, savoring every broken sound I make.

I’m still gasping when he finally pulls back and stands, his mouth and chin are glistening mess of pastry filling and me.

He wipes his fingers across his lips—but doesn’t bother cleaning the rest.

Instead, he presses his fingers—slick with filling and my own arousal—against my mouth.

“Open, princess,” he says, voice low and dark and unbearably satisfied.

And like the broken, fucked-up thing I am, I do.

I open my mouth, and he shoves his fingers between my lips, deep, curling them against my tongue.

The taste of me and sugar floods my senses at once—sweet and obscene and inescapable.

His thumb traces the edge of my jaw as he watches me suck them clean, his breathing heavy, almost ragged.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice like sin and promise.

I glare at him over the mess of his fingers, but I don’t pull away.

Because somehow— fuck —I want more.

I drag my teeth lightly over his fingers before letting them slip from my mouth, slowly, seductively. His hand drops away, but his gaze doesn’t.

It clings.

Like he’s still tasting me just by looking.

I smirk, wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. “Hope you got your fill. Would hate to think I left you hungry.”

His mouth twitches, a dark grin threatening. “Little storm, I’ll never get my fill of you.”

I roll my eyes, but my skin burns all the same as I slide off the counter.

He steps closer again, knuckles grazing my bare hip where the lingerie’s still bunched and askew. His touch is deceptively light, almost casual.

“Didn’t think you’d actually wear it,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, more honest. His eyes drag over every piece of exposed lace, every inch of black that still clings to me. “Figured you’d burn it. Or strangle me with it.”

“I considered it,” I say breezily, even as my chest tightens under the weight of his stare. “But then I figured… might as well make you suffer.”

He chuckles low in his throat, hand sliding higher, fingertips skimming just under the waistband where the lace bites into my skin. “You call this suffering?”

“You look pretty fucking wrecked to me,” I shoot back, voice saccharine. “Face of a man about two seconds away from begging.”

“Begging’s not my style.” He leans in, lips brushing my ear again, a shiver dragging down my spine. “Taking is.”

God, he says it like a promise. Like a threat dressed in silk.

I shove his chest again—not hard enough to move him, just hard enough to make a point. “I need a shower. And you now officially owe me pastries.”

He grabs my wrist before I can step fully away, thumb stroking the inside lightly, almost idly. “Is that a fact?”

“And coffee,” I add sweetly, cocking my head. “Hot. Strong. Two sugars. You now owe me both.”

He doesn’t let go immediately. He just looks at me like he’s memorizing this moment, like if he lets it slip away too fast it’ll turn to smoke in his hands.

“You’re a demanding little thing, you know that?” he murmurs, thumb brushing over the pulse hammering against my skin.

I yank my hand free with a smirk. “And you’re a hungry little thing, so we’re even.”

He laughs low, dark, and wrecked—and I don’t wait for him to say anything else.

I pivot on bare feet, purposefully swaying my hips in the ruined lingerie as I walk back down the hall toward my bedroom. I flip him off without breaking stride, heading for the hallway with every ounce of dignity I can scrape together—which isn’t easy, considering I’m half-dressed, sticky, and very obviously wrecked by his mouth.

“Better be fresh pastries,” I call over my shoulder. “Or I’m starting a rebellion.”

“Princess,” he calls back, voice warm with threat and affection in equal measure, “you are the rebellion.”

I don’t turn around.

I just smile to myself, wicked and satisfied, and disappear into the shadows of the hallway.