Page 10 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim

His voice is lower now, rougher, laced with sinister determination. He raises his hand, and for a breathless moment, I think he’ll touch my face. Instead, his fingers tangle in the delicate veil still draped over my shoulders. With a slow, intentional tug, he pulls it free, and the gossamer fabric slides down my arms to pool at my feet.

Then, before I can react, before I can even take my next breath, he leans forward.

Dorian crashes his mouth against mine, a storm of heat and fury. His lips are firm, demanding, and I’m consumed by his taste—whiskey and sin, dark and intoxicating. My mind spins, overwhelmed by the raw intensity. I’ve never been kissed like this, never been kissed at all. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, all-consuming.

Frantic to escape, I fight to bring up my hands between us, pressing my palms against his chest. His tuxedo is crisp under my fingertips, the expensive fabric no match for the hard muscle beneath. No matter how hard I push, my desperate attempts are futile.

His resolve and anger at the situation are evident in the bruising grip on my wrists as he pins them above my head. His body presses against mine, a wall of hard muscle trapping me. I’m small, helpless against his strength, and that realization sends a shiver of fear and unwanted excitement down my spine.

He lifts his head and gives me a small smile, and I know on some level he’s toying with me. “Resist all you want.”

Gasping, I fight against his awful dominance, but his grip is unyielding.

He’s enjoying this.

“You can’t just—” I start, but his mouth silences me again, his kiss deepening, his tongue invading.

With everything I have inside me, I fight, trying to escape, but he leans in, and his hips pin me to the wall. His heat sears me as his hardness presses against my belly.

Because I’ve never experienced anything like this, I’m immobilized.

With his free hand, he traces the neckline of my dress.

No.

Wide-eyed, I stare at him.

There’s no way he can mean to do this.

“Oh, yes,” he whispers, as if I’d spoken aloud.

Very slowly, intentionally, he continues to outline the neckline of my gown.

I shake my head.

Watching me, cataloguing each reaction, he slips inside the loose fabric.

I shiver as he brushes against the lace of my bra, his touch sending electric shocks across my skin.

He pauses, but he doesn’t pull away, as he gives me a moment to protest.

But I’m caught in his gaze, like a deer in the headlights.

“So you hate what I do to you?”

I hate my reaction to you.

“I think you like it. At least a little.”

Without giving me another second to protest, he brushes his fingers against my breast, making me inhale sharply as my body tenses against the unfamiliar touch.

“So soft.” He fully cups my breast, squeezing gently. His thumb finds my nipple, circling, teasing, until it’s a hard, aching peak.

My God.

My body betrays me, and I release a soft moan.

He smiles in a cold, triumphant way that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.