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“Since when are you shy?”
“I’m not,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t let go.
Instead, he kisses me, deep enough to erase the question, to make it irrelevant. His tongue pushes into my mouth, hot and claiming, and it makes me whimper. Something is different. The way he holds me—not careful, not hesitant. The way he kisses me—like he’s taking, not...
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I let my nails scratch against the fine fabric of his shirt. He makes a sound—low, rough, somewhere between approval and restraint. But he doesn’t stop me. He just moves faster. Hungrier. His hands pull my waist closer until I’m pressed against him, and I stand on my tiptoes as I grip his shirt, needing more. Then his hand is around my throat again. Not too tight. Not too soft. Just enough to make me dizzy, to make my pulse stutter. A slow, indulgent squeeze, like he’s testing something. Like he’s finally touching me exactly how he’s always wanted to.
“God, yes,” I whimper, the ache between my thighs settling low and deep, a throbbing pulse of need that makes me shudder.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
I should question why he finally gave in. Why now, after all this time, he’s finally touching me the way I’ve always begged him to. But I don’t. Because when his lips trail down my body, when his grip sinks into my thighs, when he kneels before me, settling himself between my legs, every thought disintegrates.
His grip tightens. “Sit on my face.”
Before I have a chance to digest what he’s saying, he lies down on the floor. Lies down—right in the middle of the fucking bedroom.
“Don’t run from me now,” he growls, his voice soft like velvet. “I want you to fuck yourself. I want you soaking my fucking mouth.”
“Ash—”
“Sit on my face, little...
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Little warrior. That’s an unusual nickname, and not something ...
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“I need to taste you again. Right now.” A slow, wicked pause. Then— “Or I might fucking die.”
I let out a shaky exhale as I stumble over his large body and straddle his chest. I hesitate briefly—but he doesn’t give me time to think. Gripping my thighs firmly, he hauls me up his body and positions me exactly where he wants me. My breath stutters, and a raw mix of confusion and arousal floods through me. I try to lift myself slightly, but his hands lock around me, holding me there.
“You don’t run from this, Ari. Not when I’ve been starving for you. Not when I need you more than my next fucking breath.”
“Oh—fuck—Asher,” I moan.
He goes still. His fingers dig into the fleshy part of my hips before one large hand clamps gently but firmly over my mouth. The sound dies against his palm.
“Shhh, a...
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And then, his voice, low and dark, vibrates against me. “Don’t say his name while you’re riding my face.”
“What should I call you?” I whisper, breathless, a little dazed. I can’t deny it—I’m really fucking enjoying this new game we’re playing. The intimacy laced with command. The power he takes, and the freedom I feel in giving it to him.
Poor girl is all confused on ambien lol
He considers my question for a few seconds. “Call me the Phantom,” he says finally, the word slow, smooth, rolling off his tongue like he’s testing how it feels.
Im SCREAMING
My stomach clenches—excitement, unease, something I can’t name. Recognition, maybe. Phantom? Something snags in my mind, but the Ambien doesn’t allow me to follow the thought.
“That’s… dramatic.”
A slow chuckle rumbles against my skin. “Maybe.” His voice is low, knowing, just shy of amused. “But I think it suits me, don’t you?”
“Okay, baby,” I whisper feverishly. “Are we doing a little role-play or something?”
“Sure,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue over my swollen bud. “Let’s go with that.”
His breath stutters against my skin, hot and uneven, and then I feel it. The sudden, subtle tremor of his body. The way his body tenses hard beneath me, the deep, velvety groan vibrating through his chest. A second later, a low, shuddering exhale leaves him, his entire body going tight. Did he just… The realization slams into me like a shock to the system. He lost control. Completely. Because of me.
His forehead presses into my stomach, his breathing still uneven. But then—he laughs. Low. Dark. Not embarrassed—pleased. Possessive. Fucking insatiable. The realization makes my stomach knot, makes something dark and possessive twist inside me. He just came in his pants. I made him fall apart.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice so low it sends another shiver down my spine. His fingers flex at my hips, slow and lazy now, like he’s memorizing the feel of me. “I hope you know I’m not done with you.”
I blink, still hazy, my body still buzzing, trembling, needing. “Wait—”
“Not yet,” he murmurs. He shifts, adjusting his pants, his movements tense, restrained, like stopping now is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. “Next time, Ari?” His voice is lower now, almost a promise. “I won’t be gentle.”
My cock twitches at the memory of what I did earlier. How I lost control, how I buried my face between her thighs and made her come apart on my tongue. How she gasped and whimpered and gave in so easily, so perfectly, thinking I was him.
I look down at the perfume bottle, and a sick thought slithers into my brain before I can stop it.
I let out a harsh breath, my stomach contracting as I squeeze the bottle in my free hand. My mind spins with the idea—of her waking up, getting ready, spraying this perfume on her pulse points. Unknowingly rubbing me into her wrists, her throat, her collarbones.
My stomach clenches as my gaze flicks to the bottle in my other hand. And just like that—that same wicked thought takes root. I twist off the cap. I should clean up. I should stop. A satisfied smirk tugs at my lips as I dip my fingers into my own mess and let a few large drops slide inside the bottle, swirling it into the pale golden liquid. When she wakes up, she’ll have no idea what she’s rubbing into her skin. But I will.
MADDOXXXXX
And every time she touches her wrist, every time she catches a whiff of that sweet, familiar scent, she’ll be wearing me.
I need to find Maddox and make sure I’m not losing my mind. That it wasn’t him. That it was just a dream, just a trick of my stupid subconscious. It has to be.
He pulls me down the hall so fast I stumble, my breath stuttering when he kicks open his bedroom door, drags me inside, and presses me flush against it the second it clicks shut. The air thickens. Every single cell in my body goes tight, my muscles locking up as the reality of his closeness—his size, his heat, his scent—crashes into me. That familiar scent of leather, smoke, and something darker. Something familiar. Oh god. It was him.
“Something wrong, little warrior?”
“You—you were in my room last night.”
“You—” I swallow, my voice shaking. “You let me think—”
“I didn’t let you do anything, Ari.”
“You didn’t stop me,” I whisper, hating how breathless I sound. How raw.
His fingers tighten, pulling me flush against him, chest to chest, hip to hip, and I let out a soft, strangled sound. “No.” His voice drops lower. “I didn’t.”
A thrill runs through me—a dangerous shiver of realization. Because the worst part? I don’t regret it. Not the way he touched me. Not the way I responded. Not even the way I want more, to feel the way he went rigid underneath me and let out that guttural moan— I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, as if that will get rid of the mental image swimming around in my mind. He’d touched me the way I’ve been craving for so long. The way I’ve been asking Asher to for years. Except with Maddox, I didn’t have to ask or direct him. He just knew.
“You want me to say it, don’t you?”
My stomach flips. “Say what?”
“All the things you like. All the things he never bothered to learn.”
“Poor thing. You must be so wound up after two years of missionary and silence.”
