He moves my legs together so I’m not as low to the floor, then slides his cock between them, his hands stealing around me, holding my breasts, warm and firm. He churns his hips, rocking back and forth against me between my legs, outside of me. I try tilting my hips to angle him for entry, and he pinches my nipples.
“No,” he says firmly. “You’ll come for me like this before I fill you. You keep asking to be tamed, kleine Hexe. I’ll oblige and make you so weak you can’t stand.”
Waves of pleasure rise as he plows against me. The wetness as we move together is so abundant, my thighs are getting soaked. One of his hands digs into my left hip as the other teases my nipple, herding me toward climax.
Through the pre-orgasmic haze, I insist, “I’m not as weak as you think…”
“I’ll only make your knees weak—never your spirit, my littleconqueror,” he says. His jaw is tight; I can hear it in his voice as he tries to hold back.
I undulate my hips and let myself moan, knowing how it inflames him. I want to make him finish first… deny him, control him,break him.
The memory flickers up, the Mata Hari quip Nefeli made:Shag the dear boy into exhaustion and go through his pockets for secrets.
Admittedly, she claimed thatwasn’twhat she meant… but right now it sounds like a great idea.He lied to me.Maybe I’ll wear him out and put this mystery to rest once and for all, sneak out of the bedroom while he’s sleeping and go through his briefcase.
Nefeli referred to him as “putty in my hands,” but Klaus has always been more like a fistful of sand: conforming to the shape I want for a moment, but as soon as I remove the pressure, slipping through my fingers. My vexation at his power over me is nearly as intense as my arousal.
Why shouldn’t I try fighting fire with fire, if deception is his game?
Despite the vengeful thoughts in my mind, my traitorous body is lost in a delirium of desire. I’ve instinctively hit a rhythm, moaning, panting, thrusting back against him as his slick, steely heat rubs me just right.
Like a river tide lapping at the shore, he pushes me onward, until the warning glimmer shows through the cracks in my will, breaking deep in me. Sudden, blinding fireworks of orgasm follow. I’m leaning nearly face down against the counter, and as I come hard, one arm shoots out sideways, and I dimly hear the clatter of a container of bar tools as I launch it to the floor.
He slows his movement and stops, gripping my hips like he’s at the edge of his limit. A sound comes from his throat, a helplessgroan mixed with a laugh of triumph. “Ich möchte Dich betteln hören,” he grits out. “Beg me for what you need.”
I straighten, swiping back the piles of hair tangled over my face, and turn around. My legs are, as promised, trembling. “Beg you?” I shoot back with a haughty smile. “Am I your servant?”
He captures my face in both hands and kisses me hard. “No, Talia. I’myours. I’ve belonged to you since the moment you took a drink of my cognac. You left your bloodred imprint on my glass, my heart, my life.”
He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around him. Digging my fingers into his shoulders, I work my hips into position. The head of his cock is pressed against my entrance, and I move against him in a sinuous, taunting dance before I sink down, gradually taking every magnificent inch, watching his face.
The silver-flecked dark hair at his temples is dewy with the sweat of our urgency. His lips are parted, and as he tips his head back for a moment as if overwhelmed, the white ridge of his teeth captures my attention. There’s something so vulnerable andrealabout every part of our bodies as we’re entwined like this.
My worries and resistance evaporate. I’m viscerallyhere, watching the tenderness of his mouth, connected to him, wrapped in him. Clamping his shoulder with one hand and wringing his hair with the other, I kiss him like I’m feral, like my heart is breaking, like I want to live inside him the way he’s in me.
The sound in his throat is a plea. He takes a dozen steps, heading for the bedroom, before he stops and presses me to the wall of the passageway from the living room. The wood paneling at my back is cool and hard, but somehow I welcome the rhythmic jolt against my spine as he pounds into me.
Our feverish mouths take and take, both of us selfish, starved. The wooden floor creaks in staccato protest as Klaus surges against me hard. His panting is almost a growl—stern, combative—as if every sharp exhale is commanding me to reveal more of myself, to let him in deeper.
My body in a place of striving that’s beyond the dictate of pleasure, I hear myself gasping out, “I know you,I know you,” as we buck against each other.
“My Talia—you know me better than anyone,” he returns in a harsh whisper.
I can feel how close he is. In a fever of greed, I cling to him, begging, “Fill me… don’t leave…”
With a throaty cry he lets go, crushing me against the wood paneling, his body tense. His release shudders inside me, and I dig my heels into him, murmuring nothing and everything, a nonsense of comfort, my half sighs, half kisses gusting against his shoulder.
After a pause to catch his breath, he straightens, lifting me reverently and carrying me to the bed. His left forearm supports my weight, and his free hand caresses my back.
“My God—I don’t know what came over me,” he says. “Did I hurt you?”
Not in the way you think.
I administer a reassuring kiss to his lips. “I’m fine.”
He’s still inside me and carefully withdraws before setting me on the bed. “It was careless lovemaking on my part,” he says, a dart of worry between his brows.
“It was exactly what I wanted too. Don’t be upset.”
