FORBIDDEN: CRAVING DADDY TOUCH

007

The steam curls in thick, opaque ribbons around the marble vanity, fogging the mirror until my reflection is nothing but a pale, ghostly smear. I sink deeper into the oversized tub, the water hot enough to turn my skin pink, but it doesn’t touch the ice lodged in my chest. My hands shake as I drag a loofah over my arm, the rough scratch of the sponge against my skin doing little to scrub away the feeling of being sold. The soap smells like lilies and expensive chemicals—a scent that belongs to a woman who doesn’t have to auction off her body to keep her father breathing.

I stare at the tiled ceiling, the water lapping at my chin. Thoughts race, frantic and disjointed. I could run. The window is large, but we’re three floors up. I could drug him—slip something into his wine glass when he isn’t looking. But the maid had watched me like a hawk, leading me through corridors that felt more like a maze than a home, depositing me here with a stern instruction to wash. There is no escape route I can see that doesn’t end in humiliation or failure.

And beneath the panic, beneath the revulsion, there is the traitor. A low, throbbing heat coiling tight in the pit of my stomach, slick and insistent. My c**t pulses with a rhythm that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the memory of Tristan’s voice, the way he looked at me like I was a meal he’d been starving for. I press my thighs together under the water, disgusted with myself. I’m about to let a man who bought me like a piece of furniture put his hands on me, and my body is singing for it. It makes me sick, a sour bile rising in my throat that competes with the arousal pooling between my legs.

I can’t stay in here forever. The water is cooling, and the pruney skin on my fingertips is a timer I can’t ignore. I pull the plug and watch the water swirl down the drain, taking the bubbles and my momentary courage with it. Stepping out onto the heated floor, I grab a towel from the rack, wrapping it around myself until it’s tucked tight just above my breasts. It’s thick, plush Egyptian cotton, soft enough to be a comforting embrace, but I feel exposed.

I push the heavy oak door open and step into the bedroom. The air is cooler here, smelling of dark wood and the faint, lingering scent of cigar smoke. I freeze.

Tristan is sitting on the edge of the massive four-poster bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He’s shed the suit jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that are surprisingly corded with muscle. He holds a glass of dark red wine in one hand, swirling the liquid lazily. His eyes snap to me the moment I enter, raking over my damp hair, the towel knotted at my chest, my bare legs.

"Took you long enough," he purrs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the floorboards. He sets the glass down on the nightstand with a soft, deliberate clink. "I was beginning to wonder if you’d drowned. Or were you taking extra time to get ready to be f****d?"

I don’t answer. I can’t. My jaw is clenched so tight my teeth ache. I ignore his comment, my eyes darting frantically around the room. I need clothes. Specifically, I need the white lace underwear set I brought—the only thing I have that isn't sweat-stained or threadbare. I spot my discarded bag on a chaise lounge in the corner, but before I can take a step, Tristan moves.

He holds up a scrap of white fabric between his thumb and forefinger, dangling it in the air like a trophy. My panties.

"Looking for this?" he teases. He brings the lace to his nose, inhaling deeply, his eyes sliding shut for a second before locking back onto mine with a sharp, knowing smirk. "Smells like fear and expensive soap. My favorite combination."

"Give it back," I snap, the words tearing out of my throat. I step toward him, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

He chuckles, a dark, rich sound, and tosses the underwear lightly from one hand to the other, playing catch with himself. "Come and get it, Anastasia."

I lunge. I don't think; I just react, driven by a desperate need to cover myself, to reclaim some small piece of dignity. I reach for his hand, but he’s faster than he looks. He catches my wrist mid-air, his grip firm and unyielding, his palm hot and dry against my skin. With a sharp tug, he pulls me off balance.

I stumble, the momentum carrying me forward, and I land on the bed beside him. I scramble, trying to climb on top of him to wrench the underwear from his fingers, my knees digging into the mattress on either side of his hips. We’re a tangle of limbs, the towel straining around my chest.

"Feisty," he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.

I reach for his hand, stretching my arm, but the movement shifts my weight. The towel, tucked precariously above my breasts, loosens. It slips away, falling completely undone, pooling beneath me on the duvet.

The air seems to leave the room. I freeze, naked skin pressed against the rough fabric of his trousers. Tristan stills. His eyes drop, roaming over my exposed breasts, my stomach, the curve of my hips. The hunger in his gaze is palpable, a heavy weight that makes my skin prickle and my breath hitch.

Before I can move, before I can snatch the towel back up, he moves. In a blur of motion, he grips my waist and flips us. I land hard on the mattress, the breath knocked out of me, and he is there, caging me in. His knees pin my thighs open, his hands planted on either side of my head, trapping me beneath the heavy, solid weight of his body.

"Get off me," I gasp, pushing against his shoulders, but he doesn’t budge. He’s a wall of muscle, immovable.

"Shh," he whispers, lowering his head. His calloused hands splay over my hips, his thumbs digging into the soft skin there, bruising and possessive. He dips his head, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below my ear. It’s not a kiss; it’s a threat. A promise.

He trails a slow, hot path of open-mouthed kisses down the column of my neck. His tongue flicks out, tasting the pulse hammering frantically at my throat. I bite my lip hard, the copper tang of blood filling my mouth, trying to force back the moan rising in my chest. I won’t give him the satisfaction. I won’t let him know how my body is betraying me, how my skin is lighting up wherever he touches.

He moves lower, his breath ghosting over my collarbone, then down to the swell of my breast. My n*****s are already hard, pebbled peaks begging for attention, and when his mouth finally closes over the left one, electricity arcs through my nervous system. He sucks gently, his tongue swirling around the areola, while his free hand moves to my other breast, his thumb and forefinger rolling the neglected n****e into a tight, aching point.

A soft, broken sound slips past my lips before I can stop it. "Ah..."

He pulls back slightly, looking up at me through dark lashes, his eyes glinting with amusement and raw desire. "I told you not to hold that in," he murmurs against my damp skin, his voice thick and rough. "Let me hear you."

He returns to his assault, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud, sending sharp jolts of pleasure-pain straight to my c**t. I’m panting now, my resolve crumbling like wet paper. My hands, which were pushing him away seconds ago, are now fisting in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on.

His hand slides down from my breast, tracing the ridges of my ribs, over the quivering plane of my stomach, until his fingers brush the damp curls between my legs. I’m soaking wet. My body has betrayed me completely, dripping and ready for him, despite the screaming of my brain.

He presses the side of my v****a—he’s just teasing me through the air—no, his fingers are sliding beneath, through the slick folds of my p***y.

"Look at this," he purrs, his fingers sliding easily through my wetness, gathering the moisture. "You’re dripping, Anastasia. So wet for a man you hate."

I can’t help it. I grind my hips against his hand, against his thigh, desperate for friction, for anything to relieve the unbearable ache building inside me. "You’re so needy," he taunts, his fingers circling my c**t without touching it directly, teasing the sensitive edges. "Calm down. The day’s still long."

"Please," I whimper, the word tearing out of me. My head is spinning, the heat of his touch overwhelming everything else. "Just put it in. f**k me. Get it over with."

He pulls back, removing his hand, leaving me cold and empty. The smirk is back, playing on his lips, arrogant and controlling. "Patience," he says, his voice low and rough, laced with dark promise. "We’re just getting started."