by RuNyx .
"So you can go out to your father and that dickhead?" he goaded, his voice washing over her in a way she completely did not want in that moment.
Gritting her teeth, she tried to sidestep him, only to fail. The anger simmered.
"Get. Out. Of. My. Way," she enunciated, every word hard, her tone frigid.
He didn't budge.
And she let it out.
Her fingers circled his neck before she could blink, and she slammed her entire body into his. He fell a step back against the door, not because of her strength (she knew well enough to know not to fool herself into that), but because he wanted to. His eyes blazed on hers as he tilted his head, uncaring that she could strangle him. Her fingers flexed on those corded muscles, warm muscles, and the urge to let out all her anger, for some reason, assaulted her. Because whatever the reason, he was honest about his hatred of her. She appreciated that honesty. She needed that honesty.
But she was on the edge. On an edge she hadn't known she'd been walking. She was tiptoeing now.
"I asked for one simple thing," she ground out, her mouth trembling. "I told you to stay away from me. You agreed. You gave me your word. Then why is it that I find you everywhere I turn? I'm warning you, right now, I won't give a damn about the codes. You all can die for all I care. You. Stay. The. Fuck. Away. From. Me."
Before she could even blink, her front was pressed against the door, the hand that had been on his neck twisted behind her back firmly but not painfully, her other palm pressed flat on the wood as he pressed into her back, her completely bareback, the buttons of his shirt rubbing against the exposed line of her spine with each breath they took. A woodsy, musky scent she knew was him wrapped all around her as his other hand pressed on the wood beside her own. Her body shook as she turned her face sideways, her forehead brushing against the scruff of his chin as he leaned down, his lips lined against her ear.
Her heart thundered in her chest, blood pounding in her ears. Heat infused her body, the scent, the feel, the sensations heady.
"Get one thing straight, right now, Ms. Vitalio," he murmured right against the shell of her ear, that voice – that voice of whiskey and sin – rolling down her spine in waves, spreading throughout her body, pooling low in her belly. The sensation of those lips made her chest heave against the wooden door. The wooden door that was the only barrier between them and a restaurant full of people, including her father, who wouldn't hesitate to kill either of them.
That knowledge sent another thrill through her. That knowledge that for some reason, this man made her feel like a dangerous woman; that knowledge that for some reason, she knew this man wouldn't let anyone else kill her. And she stood inside with him pressed to her, not an ounce of remorse for betraying her father inside her. The thrill was all that there was.
"I will stay away when I want to," he whispered. "Not because you or anyone else tell me to. But I've never forced a woman, and I won't now."
Morana bit her lip, realizing he wasn't touching her anywhere except where her hand was behind her back. He wasn't touching her, and she felt on fire.
"We've been honest so far, Ms. Vitalio," he murmured. "I'll be honest now. I despise you but I want you. Fuck it, I do. And I want you out of my system."
The crude way he spoke made her breaths heave faster. He continued.
"Your father's men are right outside this door this very second. You want me gone? Just say the word."
Morana stilled, her head turning towards the wood, her breaths rapid in the confined space.
"You need to make a decision."
Holy fuck. How was she supposed to make a decision with her brain fried? God, she wanted him. She'd had sex once, with Jackson, mostly out of rebellion, but it hadn't been something she'd wanted to repeat anytime soon. There hadn't been even a quarter of the heat just locking gazes with this man had. She'd never felt so heady, so carnal, so, so utterly wanton in her own lust.
And that was the crux of the entire problem. She hated him, everything he had done and every word he'd said. She wanted to kill him someday. But her body wanted him. And she wanted him out of her system. Just once.
Her father was right outside. His men were right outside. The Outfit was right outside.
Tristan Caine was inside. Behind her.
She wanted him inside her.
Morana closed her eyes, raising her free hand to the top corner of the wooden door.
And she locked it.
Decision made.
Breaths.
She could hear his breaths, right against her neck, blowing softly over her ear, heating the skin it washed over. Her neck tingled. Blood rushed over the spot, igniting it with a flame she was unfamiliar with, his exhale kindling it, higher and higher, just across that expanse of skin. Her heart stuttered, her fingers pressing harder into the wood, her trapped arm wanting to squirm. She barely contained the urge, standing still except for her heaving breasts, her fingers tingling with the need for touch, for sensation, hungry for contact with warm male flesh she could feel behind her, not pressing into her but so, so present.
She turned her face towards his.
Breaths.
A scent of scotch and chocolate, mixed in a heady concoction she wanted to taste on her mouth. Her eyes flickered down to his lips, tracing them with her gaze, seeing the ripe fullness of it, making her teeth want to sink in them, test their plushness, their softness. Her eyes went to the scar at the corner of his lip, peeking out from under his scruff, making her tongue heavy, wanting to lick it, to taste it, feel it. Her gaze lingered on the scruff around his mouth, wondering if it would scratch against her skin, itch, or maybe burn, leave the marks of his devouring for the world to see, red and pink skin burning with the memory of his hunger.
The world definitely couldn't see.
And neither could she later.
No. She wanted him, but she wanted him out of her system more. This was a one-time thing, and she wanted absolutely no memories of it, ever. Not once that door opened and she walked out on her heels. She wanted to get to her codes and get the hell out of this life. She wanted this just to be a thrilling memory in her past. Nothing more.
Turning her eyes up, she locked her gaze with those magnificent eyes, the blue darkened to just a rim on the outside, telling her he was serious about this, not faking anything. He was aroused, very aroused. His breaths were heavy, deep, controlled but his eyes were blazing with such intense lust and hatred, that familiar hatred that she didn't even blink at anymore.
"Keep your mouth away from me," she told him in a low voice.
His face remained completely passive, only an annoying eyebrow hiking up. "I had no intention of bringing my mouth anywhere near you."
Morana grit her teeth, the residual anger burning deep in her belly. She didn't know why it offended her, given she had suggested it, given she wanted it, but she was offended and it made her angrier. This was just a quick fuck. There was no point in complicating it.
"Just your cock then," she told him crudely, unabashedly, her body flaring with fury and desire, mingling in a way she couldn't tell which was which anymore.
He let her hand go, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he didn't move. "How much experience do you have?"
The question fuelled the fire even more. If he thought she was telling him anything about her sexual history, he was more deluded than she thought. Her hands fisted beside her before she knew it, her spine straightening.
"How badly do you want to get punched?" she growled out, her voice barely low enough to not be heard outside the door.
He didn't say a word, that amalgamation of lust and hate pure blaze in his eyes, his head tilting to a side as he kept his eyes on hers, his face completely bland of any expression.
Morana waited, for a word, for a move, for a wrong breath to tip her over and murder him. She was that close.
He didn't do a thing. Not a thing.
Just watched her with narrowed eyes.
And that tipped her o
ver.
"Go fuck yourself," she spit out and turned to the door, to open it and leave, humiliation churning through her stomach on the tail of everything else. She was trembling. Trembling. Trembling like her body couldn't contain anything anymore, as though she was a bomb ticking to its doom, ready to take down everything and everyone around her. Oh, if she was a bomb, she wanted to explode and take down this asshole first. Or maybe her father. And the creep at the table. It was a freaking line. And wasn't that her jolly life.
She almost turned to the door when in a split second, it happened.
His hands gripped her waist before she'd taken one step, picking her up with a kind of strength she'd never experienced, making her heart fall to her knees. She barely contained a yelp at the sudden movement, but the moment her feet were off the floor, he moved her like she weighed nothing more than a cushion, and put her on the granite counter in front of the mirror.
The cold granite hit the overheated skin of ass suddenly, making her hiss, the counter hard against his not-so-gentle deposition.
Her dress bunched up against her upper thighs in the motion, the cold granite against her exposed flesh making her shiver. His hands left her waist and the moment they did, she put her hands flat on the counter, a little behind her to maintain her sitting position and keep her balance. The action made her breasts push outwards, her legs slightly spread from the way he'd deposited her, with her dress almost above her thighs. She felt a flush crawl over her face at the wanton picture she made, never having displayed herself so carnally to anyone.
Her gaze locked with his as he stood two steps away from her, his eyes sharp on hers, before slowly going down her neck, her cleavage, her heaving breasts to the top of her thighs, all the way down to her toes in a slow, languid perusal. Her breasts got heavier, nipples hardening unabashedly as heat pooled even heavier in her belly, her breaths hastening.
She did her own perusal, her eyes roving over that hard, male chest she'd felt pressed against her so many times in the muted yellow lights in the room, the chest she'd seen bare just a day ago, the suit covering the hard muscles as the open collar exposed a strip of delicious male flesh that made her want to lick it, from the line of his pecs to the vein running at the side of his corded neck, right up to that chin, then that scar, and the mouth. God, why couldn't he have been some old, ugly, pot-bellied bastard with bad breath and worse smell and creepy eyes and a squeaky voice? But he wasn't. He was who he was, and she let herself see him, her eyes drifting lower and lower to below his waist.
And her breath hitched.
The front of his trousers bulged out, unashamed and unapologetic, tenting the fabric in a big way. Big. Bigger than Jackson. Much bigger.
And she felt a frisson of fear cool the lust. Fuck what had she gotten herself into? She'd never had sex like this, she was inexperienced and he was big, and he hated her.
Her eyes flew up to clash with his, doubts filling her.
Before she could blink, he closed the gap between them, his hands going straight to her thighs, parting them wide as he stepped between her legs, his face inches from hers, his eyes still holding that mix of sheer lust and utter hate, more than hate for just her. Was it for himself? For wanting her? Because lord knew she hated herself for wanting this. Wanting him.
His hips snapped to hers, her dress bunching up even higher, and her breath locked in her throat. She felt him, pressed into her, right against her core, his hard, hard erection rubbing deliciously against her bundle of nerves. And she was wet. Getting wetter with every rub of his length against her. At this rate, she'd leave a wet spot at the front of his pants, and that just wouldn't do.
And then another thought struck her.
"You have a condom, right?" she blurted out before she knew it. Even though she had measures, she could ride him bareback but she didn't trust him an inch, and she so did not want him spilling inside her.
He stilled, anger flaring in his eyes.
She grit her teeth, her fingers pressing into the cold granite. "Don't think for one second you're getting anywhere inside me without one."
One of his hands came up, circling the front of her neck like she had circled his moments ago. His grip was firm, just on the edge of threatening but not quite into the territory yet. He tilted her head up by pressing on her neck – his big, rough hand warm against her already hot neck – and a shiver traveled down her spine, suddenly making her realize how easy it would be for him to snap her neck. She'd seen him snap necks as normal people blinked. He could kill her, right there, in the ladies’ room of one of the poshest restaurants in town, and given his strength, she knew she wouldn't be able to stop him.
Her anger crackled.
"Do you?" she demanded, keeping her fear locked deep inside her, never blinking away from his hypnotic gaze.
"Are you a virgin?" he asked, his voice soft, lethal, whiskey over her senses, making her heady. And it was a sensible question. For once.
"No," she told him, raising her eyebrows, daring him to utter a word.
He didn't speak.
But he put his other hand right between her legs without preamble, his fingers pushing aside the fabric of her panties and diving straight into the core of her.
Her back arched.
A current zinged through her body, making her toes curl in her heels, the scent of her own arousal wafting up to her, making her even wetter. One of his hands circling the front of her neck, the other plowing into her folds expertly, his eyes holding hers captive.
Morana realized in that moment how much control he was exerting over her, how much control she was giving him. And with the realization came a wave of hatred and rage. Her body might betray her, her mind wouldn't.
Removing one hand from the counter, resting her weight on the other palm, she placed it right over his bulge, gripping it like he was gripping her neck, squeezing once. His hips thrust towards her sharply, barely missing the edge of the counter as his eyes flared with temper. He knew what she was doing. He'd made her vulnerable. She'd made him. Bingo.
His fingers never penetrated her, just kept circling round and round, completely avoiding her nub, just straying around her opening, sending currents of pleasure and such deep, utter need through her she would have begged had it been anyone else. She barely controlled anyways, biting her lip to keep the whimper of need from escaping, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
Her fingers tightened over his length in response, and a low sound rumbled in his chest, barely heard because of their proximity. Had he been anyone else, she would have taken a moment to admire the control he had over himself. He felt big in her palm, bigger than her hand, bigger than she could hold all at once, and her walls clenched with desire as hunger for flesh gnawed at her. Her breaths came out in soft pants as her heart thundered, completely beyond her control now.
And he stopped.
Removed his hands.
From both her neck and her folds.
She'd kill him, truly kill him, if he stopped now.
He removed his wallet from his pocket, his fingers glistening with her essence, the sight of her own desire on his rough digits, the realization that his fingers had been there, sending another wave of unchecked heat through her body. At this rate, she would combust before he even got inside her.
He pulled out a condom, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. Morana didn't look down as he unzipped his trousers. Neither did he.
And suddenly, before she could take another breath, his hand came back to her neck, this time the back of her neck like it had at the penthouse, his other on the granite beside hers.
She felt the tip of his erection brush against her clit, and her breaths quickened, the realization that she was doing this, with him of all people, thrilling some deep-rooted part of her. She wanted this. She hated it, and she was mad at herself for it. But she needed this.
She needed him to rut against her and make her explode, not like a bomb but like a woman, so, so badly. God, she needed to scre
am her lungs out as he fucked her like his eyes promised every single time he'd looked at her, like they had promised since they'd met. She needed to feel wanton, sexed-up. And she hated it. Hated that need. Hated him for making her need like a desperate maniac.
A rapid heartbeat passed.
And suddenly, he thrust inside, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke.
A cry left her mouth before she could stop it, the burning sensation, her own wetness lubricating him, his big size spearing into her depths in that one stroke, making her breath catch, her heart hammering as the pressure of his presence filled her. He pulled out before she'd even felt him completely, hitting back in, hard, without waiting for another breath. This time she bit her lip, hard, containing her cry of pleasure as sensations assaulted every inch of her skin, the fire rising to a crescendo inside her body as her breasts bounced once from his hard thrust.
He pulled out again before she'd even acclimated to his size, bending his chin down to his chest, hiding his face from her.
She deliberately closed her eyes, not wanting to remember his face when he felt every inch of her walls squeezing him like they were, her body unable to hide any reaction from his. She didn't want to see the gloating triumph or the smirk or worse, genuine pleasure. She didn't want to see anything but stars behind her eyelids as he pulled her apart.
He pulled out, snapped back again.
Currents traveled up and down her body, her breaths coming faster and faster, her heart beating wilder and wilder, the smell of sex and his woodsy scent filling the restroom quickly. She got wetter and wetter with every thrust, wetter than she'd ever been before, wetter than she should have been, barely containing her moans of pure bliss, her body going in a state of nirvana.
The sounds of their rapid breaths and barely contained sounds filled the room. Her blood pounded loudly in her ears. Her palms ached from being pressed so hard into the granite. Her back arched as her spine curved, legs hitching higher on his hips to get a better angle as he got into the rhythm of the movements, quick, fast, hard, his hand hard on the back of her neck the only other place he touched her.