Beneath the Burn
Page 49
His timbre was growly and demanding. Holy shit, he was sexy. Impatience flooded through her, tempting her to capitulate so he’d fuck her already. “Find the tattoo, and I’ll give you the answer.”
He reached around her, opened the collar affixed to the tower, and secured it around her neck. He did the same with the shackles attached to the horizontal bar at her ass, strapping them around her wrists. “What’s your safe word?”
“Huntress.”
Stepping back, his eyes lingered over every trussed inch. With a flex of his bicep, he swung the belt.
Fire spread from each slap on her thighs. Sweat beaded on his golden complexion. His muscles swelled through his swings, and his leathers strained to hold his arousal.
Her own urging rushed through her groin, leaking free of her pussy and drenching her inner thighs. Sweet mother, she wanted him to peel off those pants and slam into her, fast and bruising.
He locked eyes with her, and the belt thudded to the concrete. Groping the waistband of his pants, he shredded them in the next beat of her thumping heart. Then he was on her, plunging his dick between her legs, gripping the bar for support as he thrust faster, deeper, slamming into her cervix.
Charged quakes zinged through her womb, stirring her body into a fast-approaching release. She teetered, hanging from the binds, the power of his hips banging her into the tower.
With a rush of exhausted air, she gave into the orgasm, shaking with the force of it. A moan ripped from her throat, and he smothered it with his mouth, biting her lips and curling his tongue with hers.
He pulled out, halting his own release. He squatted at her feet, eyes on her throbbing pussy. “Is it here?” His probing finger wouldn’t find it, but she used the reprieve to catch her breath. His exploration moved deeper, and she grinned at the image of tattooing her own vagina. Unsuccessful in his hunt, he shifted behind the tower and spread her cheeks.
A ragged laugh burst from her chest. “You must think I’m a contortionist if you’re checking my asshole for ink.”
“Stubborn brat,” he mumbled as he lifted her feet as much as the shackles would allow, bending her toes, checking her soles.
“You’re getting closer.” Not.
He stood, yanked on her hair, probed her scalp, and released her with a huff. “Fuck this. I don’t need to ask. You’re marrying me and that’s that.” He spun and tagged his pants from the floor.
“What are you doing?” Was he done? His erection disagreed.
Tugging something out of his pocket, he held it up to her face, pinched between his finger and thumb. A point-cut diamond caught the dim light, casting a glimmer over her vision. Black curling flames engraved the inside of the silver band. The design mirrored his tat, a symbol of their pasts, their future.
She sucked in a breath. “When?”
He trailed his fingers along her left arm, over the wrist cuff, and interlaced their hands. “I commissioned it while on the plane from New York. It’s been in my pocket for a long time.”
“Why didn’t you give it to me this morning?”
“I didn’t know where my pants were, and I was quite comfortable.” He leaned his weight against her and captured her lips, his tongue rolling with hers in a sensual dance. “Marry me.”
Without waiting for a response, he shifted toward her outstretched arm and uncurled her fingers. The drum in her chest was so loud she was certain he could hear it. With her palm open and facing him, he slid the ring down her finger and stopped.
His lips parted, and their eyes collided. She nodded, floating into his gaze, their dreams, her promise.
A smile blazed over his beautiful face as he looked back at her hand, at the word permanently inked on the inside of her ring finger.
Yes.
About the Author
Pam Godwin lives in Missouri with her husband, their two children, and a foulmouthed parrot. When she ran away, she traveled fourteen countries across five continents, attended three universities, and married the vocalist of her favorite rock band. Now, she resides in her hometown, earning her living as a portfolio analyst, and living her yearning as a writer.
Java, tobacco, and dark romance novels are her favorite indulgences, and might be considered more unhealthy than her aversion to sleeping, eating meat, and dolls with blinking eyes.
You can follow her at pamgodwin.com
Acknowledgements
Thank you to all my friends at critiquecircle.com, for your honesty, enthusiasm, and wickedawesome advice. Dana Griffin, Lindy Winter, Melisa Bailey, Jessa Callaver, Aminah Grefer, Ketty McLean, Charlie Aylett, Lindsey R. Loucks, and C K. Raggio contributed 268 emotion-charged critiques totaling 114,000 words. Thank you doesn’t come close to conveying my gratitude.
To Barbara Elsborg, magical authoress, for inspiring me, supporting me, and sharing your cunning feedback. As a dreamy admirer of your work, having your eyes grace my projects gushes my fangirlism to squeesome levels.
To Jenny and Gitte at totallybookedblog.com, for your heart-thumping review. I could kiss you a fucktillion times, and it wouldn’t be enough.
To Jacy Mackin, editor extraordinaire, for spittin’ and shinin’ with infallible aim. Your skillz leave me supine and smiling.
To my beta readers, Amber at ambersreadingroom.com, Mare Mulvey at redhotbluereads.blogspot.com, Brooke Hoover, Jeanice Monson, Angie Halteman, and Monica Robinson, for your commitment, encouragement, and invaluable reactions.
To survivors of sexual abuse, for bullying your demons in any manner you choose, and for accepting only the definition of therapy that works for you. You have the right to remember. To voice it. To be pissed off about it. Above all, to be proud. You’ve outlasted your scars and can teach the lesson on heroism.
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About the Author
Acknowledgements
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