Ravished (The Teplo Trilogy #1)

by Ayden K. Morgen

  Oh… God.

  She moaned.

  "And then I want to take you home and make you come again. Do you want that, baby?"

  God, yes, she wanted that. So badly her legs trembled at just the suggestion of what he wanted to do to her. She hissed when his teeth sank into her earlobe. His tongue followed behind, easing the sting of his bite.

  "Do you?" he asked.

  "Yes. Please, yes."

  He leaned forward and kissed her again, his tongue thrusting in and out of her mouth as if illustrating exactly how he planned to make her come for him. By the time he pulled back, she was a sobbing mess. Everything he made her feel crashed through her at once, raging like an inferno.

  "Tristan, please," she begged, needing him to touch her, fuck her… anything he wanted so long as it eased the ache building inside her. Strands of her hair caught in the miniscule crevices of the brick, pulling. Even that felt good, like little stings of pleasure radiating throughout her body.

  "Please what, sweetheart? Tell me what you need."

  She didn't know what she needed. Release and pleasure and him and here and now. To go home and do it again. Everything he'd promised her, exactly as he'd promised her.

  His teeth sank into the hollow between her shoulder and neck this time.

  She cried out, wanting more. She wanted his mark on her again, proof that he'd really been there. That she really was splayed against a wall in a dark corner of Teplo with his teeth in her flesh and his body all over hers. She tilted her head to the side for him as he sucked her skin into his mouth and released it, tongue swirling in that same gentle way that made her crazy.

  "Tell me what you need from me," he said again, lifting his head until his blue eyes met hers. "I want to hear you say it."

  "Tristan, please."

  She shifted, tugging against his hold as if that would somehow get her closer to her goal. He smiled that wicked, devilish smile and pressed her hands more firmly onto the wall. Not enough to hurt. Not nearly enough to hurt.

  "I'll give you whatever you want, but you have to tell me."

  "You."

  "Me?"

  "Yes. God, yes," she groaned. "I need you."

  Something dark and light and brilliant all at once flashed through his eyes.

  "Say it again," he whispered. Not a command this time but a request, a plea. His mouth dipped to hers, tongue slipping past her lips and tasting her mouth before he pulled back. "Please."

  "God, I need you," she whispered in return. The words were breathy, shaky, but earnest and honest even so. "So much it hurts."

  "Ah, fuck, sweetheart." His head fell back. A tremor raced through him. And then his mouth was on hers, frantic, urgent, and as desperate as she felt. When he moved away this time, his eyes were pools of blue lava, sparks seeming almost to crackle as he stared down at her.

  She moaned his name at that look in his eyes, so unrestrained and undiluted and perfect.

  "Don't move," he warned her, capturing both of her hands in one of his. The other trailed down her arm and sent flames bursting to life there, too. His gaze stayed locked on hers as he roamed down her arm and over her breast to roll one nipple between his fingers. She cried out, but didn't move, frozen in place by the emotion playing across his face.

  His fingertips trailed down her stomach. Even through her shirt and the restrictive fabric of the bellyband, heat seared her everywhere he touched. Lower, lower… and lower again. Across her hip, and then down her thigh. He delved his hand beneath her skirt, inching the fabric upward.

  Everything stopped. The music. The lights. Her heart.

  "Breathe, Lillian," he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers even as his hand quested higher.

  Her breath left her throat in a rush, knees nearly buckling beneath her when he stroked his fingers across her center. He caught her about the waist, holding her up.

  Her hands fell to her sides.

  Tristan adjusted his stance, hiding her from sight even as his weight pinned her gently to the wall. His fingers delved beneath the fabric again, sliding between the wet lace of her panties and onto her center. "Fuck." He closed his eyes and groaned. "You're always so wet and ready for me."

  She moaned her agreement, so far gone in anticipation she couldn't form a single word.

  "Hold on to me."

  She lifted numb arms and draped them over his shoulders.

  His lips curved upward. "You look so fucking good. Let me see it." He seemed almost to be speaking to himself, the words so soft she would not have caught them had his mouth not been so very close.

  His hand began to move. Not one finger, but all of them, rubbing across her clit as the dam on his self-control broke wide open. Hers followed in its wake, ripped apart by the sensations he sent raging through her as soon as he began to touch her. She wanted to cry out, to scream, to let him know what he was doing to her, but she couldn't. Not one word passed her lips. Not a single sound. All she could do was stand there and feel the sensations tearing through her as he circled her clit fast and hard.

  She exploded in a matter of moments, her desperation and his sending her careening over the edge into bright white light and not nearly enough relief. She cried out as she fell, and then cried out again when he crushed her body to his.

  It wasn't enough. She needed more.

  He didn't make her ask for it. Didn't make her say anything at all, in fact. Before she could even find words, he was moving, propelling her through the club as if possessed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I need you.

  I need you.

  Those three words pounded through Tristan like a second, vital heartbeat as he tucked Lillian as close to his side as he could get her and started through the club. He tried to go at her pace through the den of sin, but fuck! He was so high on her and those three little words, he felt like he would levitate. Come completely unglued if he didn't get inside of her now. He needed it – needed her – like he needed air. What he'd felt on the dance floor was inconsequential compared to what he felt right then. It wasn't just a physical ache twisting in his gut or a desire to claim. It was… feral. Completely animalistic.

  And he had no desire, no will, and no way whatsoever to fight it off.

  "Tristan…."

  Lillian's breath was a gentle breeze across his neck, and he knew she felt that same frantic urgency to be connected in that one way. Her body beneath his. His pumping into hers. It was almost frightening how little control he had at the moment. How entirely she'd wrecked him, letting him make her come like that.

  Jesus Christ.

  What was she doing to him?

  "Watch it," a young girl muttered as he elbowed his way through a group not moving out of the way fast enough for him.

  They were so close to the doors, he could see the streetlight positioned outside. He was dying to break through the crowd and just get there already.

  "Hey!" The girl grabbed Lillian as she started to pass, fake nails clutching her arm.

  Tristan growled when Lillian reared back with a small, alarmed cry.

  "Don't touch her," he snarled at the little raven-haired girl, gently detaching her hand from Lillian's arm with a threatening glare.

  He pulled Lillian even closer into his side.

  The girl didn't bat a lash. Didn't even look at him, actually.

  She beamed at Lillian, her smile fuzzy. "You're Cinderella!" She bounced on the balls of her feet. "Cool! I'm Emma!"

  Cinderella.

  Tristan swore under his breath when Lillian flinched, her face paling visibly.

  Dread scratched up his spine, desire dimming.

  "Yeah, my boyfriend took me to see you perform. I'm real sor-"

  "Not now!" Tristan barked, suddenly desperate to get Lillian out of there for an entirely different reason. Her last performance, she'd been Cinderella.

  And Prince fucking Charming had broken her leg and destroyed her career.

  "I said not now!" he snapped when the girl
just kept right on talking, oblivious to the way Lillian shook like a leaf in his arms, her breath coming in small gasps.

  "Come on, baby," he whispered in her ear when the girl snapped her mouth closed, her drugged mind finally catching up to the fact that Tristan wasn't fucking around. He didn't even bother waiting to hear anything else the girl had to say, he just swept Lillian around Emma and the group looking on with dilated eyes.

  Fuck.

  He hurried Lillian out the doors and through the throng milling outside.

  She didn't say a word. Not one.

  "Almost there, beautiful," he murmured to her, his mind racing as he ushered her across the street and grabbed the key from his pocket before shoving it in the door.

  As soon as he pulled her inside and punched the alarm code into the system, he spun back to her, lifting his arms to drag her into his embrace again. He had no fucking clue what to say. Doubted anything he said would make things any better for her anyway.

  Goddamn, he'd expected that someone would recognize her eventually.

  But that specific role? So soon?

  If he ever saw Marc Rivera, he really would kill the bastard.

  "Lillian, I'm-"

  "Don't." She snapped her head up to meet his gaze. Her eyes were wide, stricken. "Please don't say anything."

  He swallowed, nodded, and let his arms fall.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. And then another and another.

  Tristan held still as she breathed in and out. Watched as her trembling slowed and then subsided altogether. He wanted… hell, he didn't know what he wanted. But the urge to say or do something to help grew stronger the longer they stood there.

  If he hadn't been so damned focused on getting her home to strip her bare, the girl never would have stopped them. He would have taken Lillian around the group instead of trying to cut an impatient path through them. She wouldn't have been slapped in the face with the reminder of what Marc had done to her, and she wouldn't know Emma's name. Neither would he for that matter. Not her name or the fact that her eyes were dark brown, she had a pierced nose, and a small scar at the corner of her upper lip.

  "Fuck," he cursed, closing his eyes. He didn't want to know what she looked like, and he didn't want to know her name. His sanity depended on not getting that fucking close to any of them.

  "Tristan?"

  "Yeah?" he asked, eyes still closed.

  "I'm fine, okay?"

  He nodded, not sure he believed her. As brief as that entire situation had been, he wasn't stupid enough to believe it hadn't hurt her. He'd seen the shock and humiliation on her face.

  "We both knew it would happen eventually."

  "Yeah, but-"

  "Did you mean what you said?"

  "What I said?" He couldn't bring himself to look at her just yet.

  "About bringing me home and making me come?"

  His eyes snapped open to find her staring at him, her bottom lip between her teeth. She was still pale, but she held her head high. And that look on her face? His stomach bottomed out at that fiery, hungry look.

  "Did you?" she prompted when he just stared at her.

  "Yeah. I…. Christ, yes."

  She nodded once, and took a step toward him. Stopped and grabbed the hem of her shirt, her eyes locked on his. His cock throbbed at the promise inherent in the heated look on her face.

  "Good," she said. "I need you inside of me."

  Oh… fuck.

  He hissed as the words left her mouth.

  In one fluid movement, she lifted the shirt up over her head, held it out in her left hand and let it drop, leaving her in nothing but her little lacy bra, skirt, and the gun holstered to the small of her back. Just like that – one drop of her shirt to the floor – and he was amped up all over again.

  He bit his tongue to keep from groaning aloud as her eyes locked on his and she started toward him.

  One step. Two. Three.

  She stopped in front of him, lifted her head higher. The look in her eye was pure sexual challenge. "Take me to bed, Tristan. Now."

  Blood roared through his veins in a molten rush.

  He was on her in an instant, stumbling toward the bedroom, his mouth working against hers as she fisted her hands tightly in his hair and kissed him back, desperation in every press of her lips to his. Some small part of his mind tried to convince him to slow down and make her talk, but he knew what she was doing. He knew she didn't want to think right now, and that was just fucking fine with him. If she wanted to get lost in him for a little while before he made her talk, he had no objections to that plan whatsoever.

  He barely managed to hit the light switch as he carried her into her bedroom, his fingers digging into her ass and pressing her down hard against his cock. She shifted her weight, providing friction and relief and a continually spiraling need for more.

  One of her hands dropped from his hair, clawing at the holster wrapped around her abdomen. "Off," she panted against his mouth. "Get it off me."

  He obliged willingly, sliding her down his body until she was on her feet, and then he tore the damn thing from her when it didn't come off fast enough to suit him. Even through the roar of blood through his veins, he remembered to sit the gun carefully on the nightstand instead of throwing it across the room to drag her back to him.

  She twisted her arms behind her, reaching for the clasp of her bra.

  "No," he commanded.

  Her eyes met his again, all wide and melting, and fuck if that didn't set his blood to pumping faster, his cock to throbbing harder, but stripping that bra from her? That was his job and he planned to enjoy every minute of it after her little challenge in the foyer. If she wanted to play, he'd play. And make her forget every single thing in the process.

  "Turn around," he whispered thickly, reaching out and placing his hands on her waist to guide her. As always when he touched her bare skin, his eyes threatened to roll back in his head from the pure pleasure of it. She was so soft, so smooth.

  Christ, he'd never get enough of having her like this.

  She turned slowly, his hands circling her waist in a heated glide as she moved.

  "Fuck," he groaned when his eyes fell on the dark purple mark he'd left on the soft skin between her neck and shoulder. A wave of possessiveness ripped through him at the sight. He tugged her backward against his chest, his lips pressing softly against his mark.

  Lillian hummed wordlessly as he placed hot, hungry kisses all across the side of her neck and shoulder. Her skin was warm beneath his mouth, her light scent bursting on his tongue like fine wine.

  "You taste so good, beautiful. Every time…."

  She shivered as his warm breath blew across the wetness his mouth had left behind, melting even further into him. He trailed his hands back up to her waist and then higher, fingertips gliding over her ribs, teasing across the sides of her breasts, and then up to her shoulders. Little goose bumps followed the path his hands took.

  "You feel it when I touch you, don't you?" he asked, fascinated by the evidence that she felt the same energy bursting between them whenever they were skin to skin. It was a hum beneath his palms, a crackling heat that made him want to wrap himself around her and never let go. One index finger traced a winding path across her shoulder, onto her neck, and down her spine. More goose bumps broke out everywhere his finger traveled.

  She moaned, shivering.

  "I like seeing that," he admitted, leaning down to brush his lips against her ear. "I like knowing what I do to you." He straightened again. "I like seeing my mark on you, too," he continued. "Right"–his finger followed the same path up her spine and down her neck before brushing across the purple splotch–"here."

  "Tristan," she groaned, her head lolling against his chest.

  "You like it too, don't you, baby?" His finger slipped beneath her bra strap and tugged it off of her shoulder. He explored the skin beneath with his mouth, kissing and nipping gently as she hummed. "Answer me."

  "Yes,
" she sighed.

  "Yes, what?" The way she spoke when he had her like this was erotic as hell. He'd never tire of that soft voice telling him how much she liked what he did to her. Winding his arms around her body again, he slid his hands up her ribcage and onto her lace covered breasts. His fingers dipped beneath the purple fabric, tugging it away from her taut nipples.

  A little gasp flew from her mouth as the fabric glided roughly against her sensitive skin and then slipped free, pushing her breasts up for him. His hands replaced the lacy demi-cups, greedily cupping and kneading. Her nipples were hard little peaks against his palms.

  "Tell me, Lillian."

  "I like having your mark on me," she whispered, arching into his touch.

  He hissed as his cock pulsed at her confirmation, and rolled her nipples between his fingers in reward.

  "Oh!"

  "I like that too," he murmured, his cock aching again at that half pleased, half surprised, throaty cry. Her sounds… he fucking loved her sounds and what they did to him.

  He pressed another soft kiss to her neck and stepped back to remove her bra entirely, aching to see her bare to him. Still though, he wanted it to last, liking the way desire spiked higher and higher as he touched and teased her. She sighed as he popped the clasps and slid her bra from her body, taking his sweet time and letting the fabric trail across her skin.

  "Turn around," he commanded, a thrill of anticipation sweeping through him as he dropped the bra to the floor.

  She turned slowly as he eased down onto the edge of the bed and opened his legs.

  "Come here."

  Head tilted so her eyes were on him, she stepped between his legs. And those eyes.... Christ, those eyes. They were that same warm brown that made him crazy. He leaned forward and nipped at her stomach, his hands sliding up her thighs onto her ass and tugging her closer. When her taste hit him this time, slightly salty from the heated rub of the holster against her skin, he groaned and pulled back. Her hand shot out and landed on his shoulder, steadying her.

  "Did you like stripping your shirt off for me, baby?" he asked, lifting his eyes to hers again.

  Her eyes widened slightly as she caught on to where he was going… where he wanted her to go.