Page 190 of The Devil's Thorn

Our mouths crashed again. He walked us back blindly, gripping me tighter, kissing me harder, and then—He threw me.

The air left my lungs in a gasp as I landed on his bed, my hair fanned out across the dark sheets, my chest heaving, my skin flushed.

He stood at the edge of the mattress, chest rising and falling with that look in his eyes again—danger and desire coiled together in a man who had never been toldno.

And for once, I didn’t want to tell himnoeither. Not tonight.

The air was too hot. Or maybe it was just him. He stood at the edge of the bed, chest rising and falling, skin flushed and damp from the rain and the heat we’d both ignited between us like it was nothing. Like we weren’t enemies. Like we hadn’t just torn each other apart with words and glances and lies.

I watched, breath caught somewhere in my throat as Rafael unbuttoned his pants and slid them off, letting them drop to the floor. His boxers stayed on. Thank God, because I wasn’t sure what would happen if they didn’t.

He didn’t say a word as he crawled up the bed, stalking over me like a predator would a kill, and I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.

His hands pressed into the sheets on either side of me, caging me in. I could feel his heat, his energy—heavy and electric.

And then he kissed me again. No warning. No gentleness. Just fire and teeth and tongue and the taste of blood and rain still clinging to his mouth.

My legs wrapped around his waist before I even realized they’d moved. I felt his smirk against my mouth, and I hated how it made something low in my stomach tighten.

He pulled one of my hands above my head. I tensed—only for a second—until I felt the soft leather looped around my wrist.

“Rafael,” I warned, my voice low and threatening. He didn’t respond. Just held my gaze as he tied the belt to the carved iron of the bedpost. Then he took my other wrist and did the same.

I tested the restraints. Firm. Still—I could barely breathe.

“Is this the part where you ask for forgiveness?” I rasped, my voice dry like ash.

His mouth lowered to my throat. “No,” he murmured. “This is the part where you forget what it felt like to hate me.”

I swallowed hard, pulse pounding. My legs tightened around him, yanking him closer, a silent challenge—or maybe a surrender. I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

The rain still whispered against the windows. Somewhere in the resort, the world kept turning. But in here, there was just him and me. Fire and fury.

My breath caught when he hovered above me, shirtless, and all carved muscle and danger. There was something feral in his gaze—like he wasn’t entirely human anymore. Like some part of him had slipped through a crack in the earth, and now he was here, crawling over me like a storm that would never stop burning.

“Keep looking at me like that,” he muttered, voice low and ragged as his hand slid down my thigh. “And I’m not letting you leave this bed for a week.”

I opened my mouth to curse him, but it never made it past my throat. In one brutal move, he hooked his fingers around the waistband of my pants—and ripped. The sound of fabric tearing open split the air, sharp and wicked, as he dragged them down and tossed them somewhere behind him. My thong followed, destroyed in his hands, and for a second I just lay there—bare, exposed, heat rushing across my skin as he knelt back, shoving his boxers down and off like they offended him.

I didn’t look away. I should’ve. But I didn’t.

“You want to hate me,” he said, crawling back over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other running over my thigh like he owned it. “But right now, you want to feel something even more.”

“I want to kill you,” I breathed.

He smirked, cruel and beautiful. “Then take your shot, Isa. After I finish breaking you.”

I felt the tip of him press against me, and my breath hitched. Every muscle in my body tensed, wrists pulling against the restraints, heart crashing into my ribs.

“Say stop,” he growled, lips ghosting my jaw. “Now. Because once I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until every fucking part of you remembers me.”

I didn’t say it. He slammed into me with a single, brutal thrust.

My body jerked, arching off the bed as a cry tore from my throat. The stretch was instant—too much, too deep, too fast—and I bit down hard on my bottom lip, fighting the burn. My wrists pulled against the restraints, tied to the damn bed like I was some kind of offering.

And maybe I was.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he rasped, his mouth brushing my neck as he stilled inside me. “That’s how you know it’s real.”