48.1
Isabel
“There might not be any fucking right now, luv,” he says. “But there will be. I can promise you that much.”
I watch his mouth move – those lips of his that are so lush it's criminal – but for the life of me, I can’t hear what he’s saying. He touches me, lightly, his fingers rolling over my clit, sending waves of heat pulsing through my body, billowing over me so quickly I can’t think of anything except that I want him to touch me more.
I want his hands all over my body.
I want him inside me.
I hear myself moan – a sound that's very nearly feral, embarrassing in its intensity – and I think he groans.
Growls is more like it.
Then he brings his mouth down on mine. It’s so hard, so fierce, that I nearly lose my breath, as his tongue seeks out and finds mine immediately. Without a second’s hesitation, he thrusts his fingers inside me.
Pleasure washes over me, the feeling so intense it’s agonizing. It’s been so long since I was touched.
And never like this, not the way Kev does, his fingers inside me, finding the most sensitive spot, pressing against it like he knows exactly what I want.
What I need.
Everything about this is wrong. In my head, I know that. Nothing good can come of this. Nothing good can come of my jeans hitched over my hips, of being pressed against the side of a building in a filthy alley, with my soon-to-be stepbrother’s fingers inside me.
My manwhore stepbrother.
The Crown Prince of Venici.
Nothing about this is right. All it would take is one person to walk by, to glance down the alley and recognize him. All it would take is one photograph, and he would be ruined. I would be ruined. My mother would be destroyed.
The thoughts flood my head, swimming around and momentarily distracting me from Kev's touch.
Kev seems to sense the internal shift in me, and he pulls away to look at me, his fingers continuing to dance inside me, his movements sending pulse after pulse of pleasure through my body.
"No words anymore, Isabel?" he asks, his voice low. Guttural.
"Words," I say stupidly. What were we talking about, before he slid his fingers inside me?
Kev chuckles. "I like the speechless version of you," he says, his eyes tSummerd on mine as he reaches underneath my t-shirt and cups my breast, the warmth of his hand enveloping me. He doesn't take off my bra, doesn't slide his hand under the fabric the way I desperately want him to do.
My skin aches to feel his skin against mine, and I hate myself for wanting him the way that I want him right now. I curse my body for its obviously appalling taste in men.
"Not…speechless," I say, the words coming out in gasps, despite my attempt to produce a coherent sentence. Kev makes a 'come hither' gesture with his fingers, applying more pressure to the perfect place inside me, and I clutch his muscular biceps tightly, my fingers digging into his skin as increasingly powerful sensations wash over me.
"You're so fucking wet for me," he says, squeezing my breast just a little too hard, sending a twinge of pain through my body that somehow has the effect of heightening the pleasure.
Is this what I like – pleasure mixed with pain? Fucking someone I'm not sure I even remotely like?
"There's going to be no fucking." I blurt out the words again, my voice breathy. I'm not sure if I'm trying to reassure him or myself.
I can't think clearly. I'm so close, so on the edge. All I know is that I want to crash over. I want him to send me over the edge.
But he just smiles.
He slides his fingers slowly – excruciatingly slowly – from my wet pussy, and I think I hear myself whine, but that can't be true, because I don't whine. I definitely don't whimper, brought to the brink of orgasm by a man and then denied. He presses his fingers against my clit, but doesn't move. He just pauses there, his fingers pushed against me, the heat from him radiating into me.
