She needed his hands on her breasts.
But his hand closed around her neck, in that hold she’d come to recognize, firm but not tight, as his lips moved right next to her ear.
“Did you feel me inside you the next day?” he whispered against the soft skin of her shell, the whiskey in his voice going straight to her head, his words going straight to her core. Her walls clenched in the memory of that hard, fast fuck on the restroom counter.
Morana bit her lip, not giving him her response verbally, even as her hips pushed back against his. She felt his cock slip against her ass as she stood on her toes, the erotic friction making her behave like a cat in heat rather than the smart, rational woman she’d been until moments ago.
Her anger at herself though, her regret for letting this happen again was much less than what it’d been a few days ago. She didn’t know what that spoke about her, or even what it meant, but for now, she embraced it, her head falling back against his shoulder as she ground herself on him, with her front pressed to the wall.
His hand tightened around her throat, his hips thrusting against her as his other hand slipped inside her jeans, her panties, homing in straight on her sweet spot. Her mouth fell open on a pant as he buried his digits knuckle deep inside her.
“So fucking wet for me,” he growled in her ear, his hips pushing forcefully against her ass. His fingers worked on her front, the hard brick wall rubbing against her breasts, scraping against her nipples, making her walls quiver every time his fingers slipped in and out. His thumb rubbed over her clit.
“Fuck if I’m not hard for you,” he spat, his hatred, his desire, his possession seeping from his voice into her body. Her heartbeats pulsed everywhere she felt him. His scent, his warmth, his touch surrounding her, imprisoning her, invading her in a way that made her blood so hot she felt like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.
His hand moved against her, inside her, as he moved behind her. The dual assault coiled the heat tighter and tighter into her belly, her spine tingling, arching, and pulsing with electric sparks of pleasure as she bit her lip to keep her pants contained.
Before she could question it or stop herself, Morana slipped a hand behind her, cupping him through the fabric of his jeans. She squeezed him hard as he cursed into her ear, his fingers speeding up impossibly inside her.
“Not – fucking – here.”
He gave her clit one rub, then another right before he pinched it hard, and simultaneously covered her mouth with the other hand. Muffling her noises like before, he pushed her over the edge as she came all over his fingers, panting loudly, her breasts heaving. Every single beat of her heart throbbed everywhere in her body.
She throbbed. She pulsed. She clenched. She quivered.
His fingers remained inside her for a few moments, milking out her orgasm as much as they could before he pulled his fingers out of her pants, wiping them over his jeans and picked up the fallen bag while surveying the area.
And Morana just stood there – speechless, stunned – looking at the wall.
The wall of her father’s house. The wall of the same house where her father lived. The wall of the heart of his territory.
And Morana had let Tristan Caine make her come like a firecracker, against that very wall, out in the open while guards patrolled the area, while he remained completely under control.
Fuck.
Fuck.
What was wrong with her? What was wrong with him?
This was the restaurant all over again except much, much more twisted. No, this wasn’t a proper fuck, and yes, it had been the mother of quickies. Still.
The worst part though? She didn’t feel an ounce of remorse.
A hand closed around her arm and turned her around, making her face those blue eyes still heated with the lust of an animal who’d caught the scent of blood, the hunger in them so intense her still-hot body pooled with molten lava, ready again. Just with his eyes.
He leaned forward, his breath whispering across her cheek, his scent engulfing her as his lips lined against her ears.
“Next time, I’m going to see how loud you can scream, Ms. Vitalio. I’m going to make you so sore you won’t know if it’s from the screaming or the fucking.”
This man needed a leash for that dirty, explicit mouth.
Morana rolled her eyes even as her heart stuttered, his words settling into her inflamed body.
“You give yourself a little too much credit.”
“Say that when I can’t still smell you on my fingers.”
She could too. And the fact that this knowledge aroused her while it shouldn’t have made Morana purse her lips, the reminder of his control and the lack of hers like a slap to her senses.
She straightened herself, pulling the bag over her shoulder, and gave him an icy glare. “Can we leave?”
His eyes narrowed slightly at her tone and he considered her for a long moment, his fingers flexing on her arm before he nodded. Turning, he pulled her towards the tree line. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Morana contemplative.
They were almost at the property wall when her phone suddenly vibrated with an incoming message in her pocket.
Ignoring it, Morana focused on getting to the hole they had entered through, seeing the guard waiting for them there. Morana reached the opening and climbed out of it, walking towards the parked beast of a bike, not willing or ready to think about what had just transpired inside.
She focused instead on the smell of the earth, the light from the moon bathing the house of horrors in clean white while watching Tristan Caine speak quietly to the guard.
Remembering the earlier message while she waited beside the vehicle, she pulled out her phone and unlocked it.
Unknown number.
Frowning, Morana clicked open the message, to find a multimedia image attached and no text. She clicked on the image, her brows furrowing as she made out the scanned picture of some old newspaper article.
Morana tapped on the picture and zoomed in, the words becoming clearer on the screen and read.
The Count of Missing Girls Shoots Up To 25
Tenebrae, July 8, 1989: In a ghastly turn of events that have shocked the city, 25 little girls between the ages of 4 and 10 have been gone missing in the 2 years. However, this is only the tip of the iceberg. Sources reveal that these are only the open and reported cases the police are working on.
The latest victim is the 6-year-old Stacy Hopkins (above), who went missing right from the sidewalk while her mother turned the corner at Madison Avenue. It is unclear as to who is to blame. While some believe this to be the work of organized crime groups, some have even talked of the occult. Most of the girls, from what our sources revealed, had gone missing from right under adult supervision…
Morana read the entire article describing the gruesome details, not understanding why someone had sent this to her. Who had sent it? And why? Had it been sent by mistake? It must have been.
Bothered about what she’d read but ready to put it out of her mind for the moment as Tristan Caine walked towards her, Morana almost locked her phone when something on the screen caught her eye. A tiny little note was handwritten in the corner with the headline.
Check the article from July 5, 1998.
An article dated twenty-two years ago.
She couldn’t decide if she was really, really brave or really, really stupid.