Page 32 of Vicious Temptation

I slip my fingertips beneath the soft material, sliding them a little further down. They meet the cotton edge of my panties, and my heart leaps a little in my chest—not out of fear, but out of anticipation. Do I want this? My breath catches in my throat, my pulse beating faster at the possibility of feeling pleasure again.

Gently, I slip my fingers under the edge of my panties, brushing them over the soft hair there, down a little further. I brush my finger over the outside of my folds, along the seam, and I’m startled to find that I’m wet.

I gasp softly, feeling the damp heat, pushing my finger between my folds. I feel slick and hot to the touch, all the way up to my clit, and my hips cant upwards as I brush my fingertip over it, biting my lip to keep from making a sound as pleasure arcs over my skin, my heart beating faster. It feels so good. I can’t keep myself from thinking about Gabriel, that near-kiss, imagining his mouth and his fingertips touching mine as I roll my finger over my clit, back and forth, the pleasure slowly building. My heart skips again in my chest as I realize that this might really be happening. That I might be on the verge of having an orgasm. It feels like a momentous occasion, that I’m capable of feeling arousal and pleasure again at all, much less that I can get myself to?—

That realization is all it takes to send me crashing back down.

The memory of Gabriel’s mouth close to mine is snatched away, replaced with a flood of other memories, memories that I’ve tried so hard to keep out. Of rough hands sliding over my skin, hot breath on my face and leering eyes, laughter, and crude jokes about who will get what part of me when Pyotr is finished. Those hands groping, squeezing, sliding over my wedding dress and under it, the brigadier in charge of Pyotr’s men warning the others not to let a finger slip inside me, lest they accidentally take what is still Pyotr’s to have. Even if he didn’t marry me. Even if he was just going to throw me away afterward.

I snatch my hand back, closing it into a fist, the feelings of arousal and anticipation suddenly replaced with revulsion and dread. I squeeze my thighs together, tears springing into my eyes as I roll onto my side, trying to fight back the memories, the feeling of hands crawling over my skin. The warmth in my blood is replaced with ice, and I shiver as I fumble for the drawer of my nightstand, grabbing the small bottle that holds my sleeping pills.

The escape from it won’t be pleasure, it will be nothingness. A sleep so heavy that not even dreams can penetrate it. It’s the only way I can get away from everything that haunts me.

Tears spill over, tracking their way down my cheeks as I shakily swallow the pill, squeezing my eyes tightly shut as I wait for it to take effect.

I was a fool for thinking that desire had any place in my life any longer. That I could enjoy even a fantasy without it being snatched away from me.

That part of my life is gone forever.

11

GABRIEL

My head is spinning after almost kissing Bella.

I sink back on my heels, watching as she makes her apologies and flees the room, wondering briefly if I should go after her. She doesn’t have anything to apologize for, after all. All she did was stumble and knock something over. I’m the one who very nearly did something unforgivable, just because I was so close to her.

It runs through my head again—the question that I probably shouldn’t have asked, but felt that maybe I could in that moment. Bella’s guard was down, we were having a relaxing evening talking over a drink—it seemed like the time to find out what had been nagging at me. I assumed it was a simple case of a betrothal falling through—something that happens from time to time. Maybe her father and the potential groom hadn’t been able to agree fully on terms, or the groom had come back to the table with negotiations that Masseo had refused. But what I was really curious about was whether or not it was that Bella had put her foot down about it.

After a few weeks of knowing her, it seems possible. She’s quiet and reserved, but I can see a thread of strength running through her that I haven’t often seen before in others. She’s more resilient than she first appears, and adaptable. And above all else, she’s stridently against the idea of being married. I can’t blame her for not wanting to marry a stranger—but my gut tells me that there’s something else to it. That there’s more to this story than what I know.

I shouldn’t have pried, but the question felt innocuous enough. And her reaction only confirmed to me that something happened before all of this that’s more than just a run-of-the-mill disagreement over betrothal negotiations.

I don’t know why it matters so much to me. It shouldn’t matter—it doesn’t really have any bearing on her job here, or what she’s doing in my house. It’s a part of her past that doesn’t affect the future she has here. But since the moment I ran into her in that hallway, it’s been hard for me to not want to know more about her. She’s different than other women I’ve known, confusing and intriguing all at once—and blindingly gorgeous on top of it all.

My heart is still slamming against my ribs as I watch her flee, arousal stronger than anything I’ve felt in a long time coursing through my veins. I’ve almost forgotten about the spilled wine as I stare after her, until I feel it start to trickle against my knee, soaking through the fabric of my pants, and it yanks me back to reality.

What were you thinking? I berate myself internally as I stand up and go to the kitchen to get more napkins, taking the broken wine glass with me to throw it away. I’d only meant to help her, but I should have known better than to be that close to her, kneeling on the floor an inch away, our hands almost touching. I could have gone and gotten things to clean up, taken away the wine glass—anything other than gotten down on eye level with her, in a position far too intimate for what we are to each other. Close enough to kiss—and I almost had.

I should have known better than to ask her to have a drink with me at all, knowing that I’ve had a hard time reining in my attraction to her. Knowing how many times already I’ve looked at her and felt a flush of desire that made me feel ashamed of myself as soon as I tamped it down.

It’s always at war with the desire to get to know her better. To find out more about who she is. And tonight, that won out.

Once again, it almost made me make a mistake.

Her perfect mouth was so close to mine. I could smell her perfume—or maybe it was just her skin, warm and smelling faintly of soap. I could feel how warm she was, could imagine exactly how it would feel to reach out and pull her into my arms, to feel the shape of her body molding against mine and the silkiness of her hair running through my fingers, how soft her lips would be against mine.

My cock throbs, straining against the fabric of my joggers, my erection refusing to subside. I was hard the minute I looked down at her mouth, achingly so, and the ache is pounding through my blood, making it hard to think, hard to focus on anything other than how badly I need relief.

I throw the wine glass away, trying to ignore my arousal, trying to think about anything else as I clean up the broken glass and the wine spill, carefully making sure none of the glass is left behind. But it’s impossible. I can’t get the sweet scent of her out of my nose, can’t stop thinking about how it would have felt to touch her. The lack of physical pleasure, of being touched, on all but a few occasions for so many years now comes rearing up, my entire body throbbing with a need that refuses to be ignored.

I press my hand unthinkingly against the front of my joggers, pushing my cock down, trying to ease the ache. But even through layers of fabric, just that pressure of my hand sends a hot sensation arcing through me, just that tiny bit of friction nearly making me moan. I’m too aroused, too sensitive, and I desperately need to come.

All I can think about is that as I finish cleaning up, heading blindly towards the stairs and up to my room. I close the door behind me, heading straight for my bed, one hand already pulling my joggers down around my hips as I free my aching cock.

I don’t bother with getting anything out to jerk off with. I don’t need it. My cock is dripping pre-cum, my shaft already slick with it, the tip red and swollen. I suck in a sharp breath as I wrap my hand around my stiff length, feeling the vein pulse against my fingers, just the sensation of skin on skin nearly making my eyes roll back in my head.

It’s not going to take long. I start to stroke, sliding my fist down to the base of my cock, gritting my teeth against another groan as my hand brushes against my tight balls, my hips thrusting up as I start to fuck my fist. I need to come—god, I need to fucking come, and I try not to think of Bella as I hurtle towards that inevitable end, but I can’t stop myself. My cock is wet with my own arousal, the sound of it slick as I pump my fist up and down my length, rubbing my palm over the head and letting out a low, helpless moan as I do.