Her hands were moving away from the granite counter and holding on to his shoulders before she could stop herself, her nails digging into his hard, hard muscles as his hand on her neck held her weight, like it had in the penthouse, the sheer strength in his body making her try to flex her hips and match his pace. But she couldn't. He moved so fast, so quick, she was just pinned to the spot, letting him move in and out and in and out of her without doing anything except breathe, her walls clenching and unclenching at a pace that couldn't match his ardent hips.
It was basic, primitive, carnal.
It was heated, wild, insane.
But it was making her scream against his hand and see stars behind her closed eyelids.
Her nipples hurt, scraping against her the fabric of the dress, needing touch so badly. She wanted to grab his hands and push them on her breasts. She wanted to pull her dress down, pull his head down and make him suck her aching nipples. She wanted to feel the lash on his tongue against her hungry breasts, feel the rasp of his tongue, feel the wetness of his mouth as his hips moved into hers like a machine.
But she couldn't. She dug her fingers into his flesh.
God, she hated him. But he was good at this. Very good.
The knock came again.
Awareness slithered down her spine even as she curved it, her breasts rising and falling rapidly as a bead of sweat rolled down her cleavage, her hands tightening on his shoulders, his flexing on her neck.
And then, he suddenly bent his knees, thrusting upwards, and her mind blanked. Blanked, feeling the force of that thrust down to her bones. Her teeth clenched, the coiled heat in her belly winding tighter and tighter and tighter. He speared her again and again, and her toes singed with the sudden roar of heat, traveling up and up her legs and spine to where he held her neck, starting from where he drilled and drilled and ending where his hand rested, the coil curling and curling and curling even as the heat spread through her limbs.
And suddenly, with one more thrust, her body locked, everything exploding, behind her eyelids in pure, sheer black, inside her body with a consuming fire she'd never felt, outside her skin in a clenching of muscles as her neck tilted back, her hips lifting off the counter from the sheer power of her orgasm, her mouth opening in a silent scream for a split second under his palm. His hips kept moving, in and out and in and out, hitting that spot again and again and again.
It was too much. She tried to shake her head, her body screaming in ecstasy, but his hands didn't let her move.
He kept moving.
She kept exploding.
And she bit down on his hand before she realized it, trying to find some purchase of the intense currents of pleasure zapping all her senses, making her wail and whine and whimper in her throat as she bit and bit and bit on his hand, drawing blood.
The knock came again.
The taste of copper and rust filled her mouth. He didn't remove his hand. She didn't remove her teeth.
And he thrust in, one last time, before stilling, expanding inside her before flexing his hips in reflex, exploding into his own orgasm, her walls quivering around him in stunned aftershocks. His own small, shallow thrusts spurred more from them, milking her as she milked him for all he was worth, his hand tight on her neck, a low rumbling sound the only sound from him. His breaths were rapid, quick, and shallow like his thrusts, her own matching his.
She was done. So done.
She couldn't feel her limbs. Couldn't feel her face. Couldn't even feel her teeth.
She'd never felt this.
Her eyes remained closed, her breaths rapidly moving through her, feeling him soften inside her slowly.
"Morana?" her father's voice invaded her fried brain.
As did the ice.
"Stop sulking like a child and come outside," her father ordered from the other side of the door. "You've been in there very long."
Morana grit her teeth as Tristan Caine pulled out of her, the motion almost making her want to moan. He removed his hands from her, his face towards the door as he disposed the condom and tucked himself in his trousers again, his back to her. Morana sat on the counter for a second, gathering her wits, before sliding down. Her legs trembled in her heels. Her knees were weak, her inner thighs burning and the center sore, bruised, used. Truly fucked.
She straightened herself, turning towards the mirror, and barely contained a gasp. Not a single hair was out of place on her. No handprints around her neck. Except for her bunched dress and flushed skin, there was no sign at all that she'd been involved in anything physical, not even a sprint let alone sex.
Blinking her shining, blown up eyes, she straightened her dress, pressing on the creases till it fell over her body like it was supposed to, like it had been the entire night. She took a deep breath, letting her skin settle slightly until just a slight shiver down her exposed spine was any indication of disquiet.
She became aware of him a second after she was put together, her eyes flying up to his in the mirror, taking him in. Like her, there was nothing on him indicative of what he'd been doing. She swallowed. And tasted the residual copper and rust.
Her eyes drifted to the hand where she had bitten him, shock filling her system as she realized it was the same hand he had cut with her knife at her house. The hand had been healing. Her teeth had done some damage.
She bit back the automatic apology that came to her lips, and pressed them together, steeling her spine.
"Ms. Vitalio," the goon’s voice came loudly. "Your father demands you to return to the table."
Yeah, well. He could stick it up his ass.
She didn't reply but turned around to face Tristan Caine, deliberately keeping her face blank.
"Not as experienced as you wanted me to believe, Ms. Vitalio," he said quietly, so quietly she barely heard him.
But she did. And the rage that had disappeared after the explosion returned, not just at him, but herself. She'd let him toss her on a restroom counter, for goodness' sake. A restroom counter. She'd let him take her hard and fast and quick. She'd let him cover her mouth and muffle her sounds while her father's man had been right outside the door, in a place where her father had been dining along with so many enemies. She'd let him make her come so hard her teeth had clenched.
And she'd enjoyed it. She'd wanted it. Every. Single. Second. Every. Single. Thrust. She'd wanted it, and she'd not wanted him to stop. Had her mouth not been covered, she would have been screaming. Had he not covered her mouth, she would have been crying out for him. And he hadn't even touched her. Their clothes had stayed completely in place. She hadn't wanted to touch him.
Good lord, what had she been thinking?
One time.
Just one time.
This was done. Completely. She wanted to leave. She wanted him gone. She didn't want a single reminder of her own flesh's depravity. This was messed up, more messed up than she'd thought it would be.
Regret and anger burned through her, along with hatred for herself.
And she saw it all mirrored in his gaze in one split second of clarity before he masked it again.
He was hating himself too. He was regretting too. He was angry too.
Good.
The worst part was, even as everything burned in her body, so did desire, as unsated as it had been when she'd walked into the room. What had been the point of it all if she felt no satisfaction whatsoever?
Without a word, she turned towards the door and took her first step.