The Prototype

69. In His World

TEMPEST

The heat of his body pressed into mine, solid, unyielding, a cage of muscle and dominance that pulled me from the depths of sleep. A heavy, possessive arm banded around my waist, dragging me back, molding me against the thick, rigid length of his dick. Even through the thin silk of my gown, his heat branded me, seeped into my skin like a slow-burning fire.

Warm lips found my shoulder, a deliberate drag of his mouth, open and wet, a slow, claiming stroke over the frantic pulse beneath my skin. Each breath he exhaled poured over the side of my throat—steeped in quiet arrogance, dark, simmering with need.

A shiver licked down my spine.

His grip tightened.

"Is this your way of apologizing for how you behaved last night?" My voice, still thick with sleep, slipped from my lips in a soft, teasing murmur.

A low chuckle vibrated against my neck, dark, knowing—an unspoken admission that curled through me like a drug, seeping into my bloodstream, insidious and inescapable. "It could be," he murmured, voice sinfully smooth, laced with something wicked.

His hand moved—slow, unrushed—trailing down the curve of my stomach before gliding up, fingers dragging steadily over the silk clinging to my body. My breath hitched as he reached my breast, palm molding over it, kneading, teasing, fingers catching the hard peak through the thin fabric.

I didn't stop him.

And he took that as permission.

That same hand drifted lower, slipping beneath the hem of my gown, tracing a slow, deliberate path along my bare thigh. His fingers found my bare pussy, parting me with ease, pressing into my slick heat, rubbing against my aching, swollen pussy.

A sharp breath punched from my lips.

A low hum of satisfaction rumbled from his chest, deep and knowing. "It seems like it's working already." A taunt. A promise. His arrogance slithered through the words, edged with something lethal.

His fingers stroked—slow, purposeful, every movement designed to unravel me. Circling. Pressing. Teasing. A lazy torment that made my breath hitch, my thighs clench in a useless attempt to dull the sensation.

It only made him push deeper.

A moan slipped free, unbidden.

His other hand moved, slipping beneath me, dragging the strap of my gown down, exposing my breast to the cool air before his fingers pinched my nipple—rolling, twisting—hard.

I gasped, my body jerking against him.

"Do you want me to stop?" The question came as a rasp against my ear, dark, lethal, soaked in arrogance. He already knew the answer.

But I wouldn't make it that easy for him.

I swallowed the pleasure threatening to spill from my lips, keeping my eyes shut, my breathing steady. "Do you want me to want you to stop?"

His fingers twitched. His grip tightened.

A sharp, unforgiving pull at my nipple. A punishing stroke against my clit—rough, relentless. A ragged moan tore from my throat before I could stop it.

He wanted me to say it. To give him the power wrapped in my consent.

He crushed in closer, the full weight of him sinking into my back. His dick, thick and rigid, pushed against my ass through the thin fabric of his briefs, the heat of it scalding.

His hips moved—slow, deliberate—a punishing drag of his hard dick grinding against my ass, a calculated torment that matched the wicked tease of his fingers between my thighs. Every stroke, every lazy thrust, was cruel, merciless. Designed to unravel me.