To get through a heartache after the sudden breakup, Arabella moves to New York City to start another chapter of her life.
Driven by the hope to make Adrian Castle, the man who left her broken to pieces with an excuse of protecting her against his w...
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Through the dark hallway, I pull Arabella with me. At each hushed step I take toward the music-infested floor awaiting downstairs, her heels echo loudly against the old concrete floor, resonating with her thick but firm breath that's more likely from shock and gamut of emotions after what she's witnessed. Whether it's the influence of fear or not, I still cannot tell.
She wanted the taste of my life there she had it. And it's just a tiny glimpse of it.
I'm boiling with anger, so much anger that makes my stomach revolt. Why is she here? Why doesn't she ever listen to me, dammit? Why is she so fucking stubborn, for Chris's sake! Just why? My fingers curl around her wrist extremely tightly but she doesn't lament. I want to hurt her, and at the same time, my focus is to get her out of here and make sure she's downright safe.
And maybe she can finally tell me what brings her to the club. To New York generally. She can't be here.
Loud upbeat music overruns my thoughts when we hit the mundane club floor. I notice Arabella's long heels as she struggles through the stairs at the speed we take. I slow down a bit while jostling her through several sweaty teens at some dark corner, barely the flickering fluorescent providing them the light as they make out or fuck or whatever the hell they're doing.
And that's when I mark three men in black suits rushing down from the Sheer And Latex floor using the elevator. Hugo's men, I suppose. They are always dressed like that and always moved in a pack. Swiftly, I fling my body and wrench Arabella toward the wall–somewhere hidden and dark, not farther from the bar counter and quite close to the elevator.
Arabella gasps remotely, as though I've shoved a finger below her belly. Her body stirred with a familiar heat that shows through the warmth of her breath, and she immediately whispers, "What are you—"
"Shhhh!" I block her lips with my palm, angling my free arm on the wall space above her head, gazing down at her.
Automatically my body shields her strangely thinned form, and we still like this, not moving or saying a word, staring into one another. Her breasts graze my chest as she respires in smooth little pants, her eyes glistening curiously but with myriad emotions laced in her warm breath that smells feebly of vodka and lime.
My attention doesn't fray from any moving thing coming our way, especially the three men who clatter hurriedly through the stairs, even though I'm equally focused on my little rebel. I look at her innocent yet defying face, her novice blonde hair, and her tight sexy dress that reminds me of everything I don't have, and her womanly scent overwhelms my senses.
She's here, yet I'm missing her terribly.
My breath hitches with predatory intent as her breasts rise in a way I fathom as need. The Dom in me wants to grip her neck, push her harder against the wall, and pull her natural hair mercilessly before burying my pulsing cock into her. I just want to punish her, to inflict so much pain on her body as a better language to express how pissed I am right now.
