Page 90 of The Drama King

"Dorian," she breathed, and the sound went straight to my core.

"Again."

"Dorian." This time it came out like a plea, like worship, like everything I'd been desperate to hear.

I lifted her onto the dressing table, stepping between her spread thighs, and felt her wrap her legs around my waist with gratifying desperation. Every kiss, every touch, every soft sound she made was confirmation of what I'd known for months—she was mine, had always been mine, was finally ready to admit it.

"Tell me you want this," I said against her throat, hands sliding up her thighs. "Tell me you want me."

"I want..." She broke off with a gasp as I found sensitive skin, but I needed the words.

"Tell me."

"I want you," she admitted, the confession raw and honest. "God help me, I want you."

The admission broke something inside me, some last vestige of control I'd been clinging to. This was it—the moment I'd been working toward for months, the surrender I'd been systematically orchestrating.

But as I looked at her—beautiful and desperate and finally, finally mine—I realized it had never been about the plan at all.

It had been about this. About her. About the way she made me feel like I was burning alive and drowning and flying all at once.

"Mine," I said against her mouth, and felt her shiver with want.

"Yours," she whispered back, and the words were everything.

But then something shifted in her expression—a flicker of the old defiance, the resistance that had been driving me wild for months.

"I hate you," she breathed, even as her hands pulled me closer.

"I know." I kissed her harder, teeth catching her bottom lip. "I fucking love that you hate me."

The contradiction broke something in both of us. This wasn't tender love-making: this was war by other means, months of antagonism and sexual tension finally finding an outlet. When I spun her around to face the mirror, pressing her hands flatagainst the glass, she didn't protest. She met my eyes in the reflection with a look that was equal parts fury and desperate need.

"Look at yourself," I commanded, one hand fisting in her hair while the other worked at lifting her skirts. "Look at how much you want this, how much you want me."

"Fuck you," she gasped, but her hips pushed back against me, seeking contact.

"That's the plan." I found the ties of her undergarments, ripping them away with more force than necessary. "But first, you're going to admit what we both know."

"Which is?" Her voice was breathless, defiant, everything I'd been craving.

"That you've been thinking about this. About me. About letting me take you exactly like this." I positioned myself behind her, letting her feel how much I wanted her. "Haven't you?"

She tried to turn away from the mirror, but I caught her chin, forcing her to watch as I pressed against her entrance.

"Haven't you?" I repeated, my voice rougher now.

"Yes," she hissed, the admission torn from her throat. "Yes, damn you."

"Say it properly."

"I've been thinking about you fucking me," she said, the crude words sounding obscene in her refined voice. "Happy now?"

"Getting there." I pushed into her slowly, watching her face in the mirror as she took every inch. "God, you're perfect. So tight, so wet for me."

She was watching too, I realized—watching us in the reflection, seeing the way her body accepted mine, the way she looked with her hair disheveled and her dress bunched around her waist while I claimed her from behind.

"You like watching," I observed, setting a hard rhythm that made her gasp. "Like seeing how good we look."