His Forbidden Scarlett

Always and forever

Scarlett's POV

"Don't move."

I didn't. I couldn't have, even if I wanted to. My whole body had gone taut, waiting, my eyes locked on his in the mirror like looking away might break whatever spell had settled over the room.

In the silky, skimpy nightdress, the top of my breasts were exposed in the mirror to his eyes and I hated that I couldn't cover myself up. I only watched and struggled vainly while he stared at my chest as if he was considering the many ways he could engrave his name there and brand me as his.

Slowly, his hand left my throat.

It slid down, over my collarbone, tracing the thin strap of my nightgown like he had all the time in the world and I tensed even more, holding my breath. His touch brought too many bad memories, too many reminders of my mistakes.

And yet they felt so good. It was so hard to not lose myself in his hold and to not bite my lower lip and shut my eyes, relishing the pleasure.

"You're shaking," he murmured, watching my reflection, his eyes half-lidded and dark. "Is that fear, Scar? Or is it something else?"

Scar.

The pet name that ruined my life and still threatened to do the same again.

"I don't—" My voice came out unsteady, barely a whisper. "I don't know."

"Really?” The strap of my nightdress slipped an inch off my shoulder under his fingers, achingly slow, and I watched it happen in the mirror like it was happening to someone else.

My chest was heaving and my eyes stung with tears I wouldn't shed. The feelings and emotions were conflicting. A part of me wished I had a knife to pierce his heart right now and yet a stupid part of me reminded me that I wanted him, needed him more than air, more than anything. "If that's the case then I should show you, don't you think?”

My mind was racing in every direction at once — his eyes, the gold, the sharp graze of teeth, my son completely unaware that his mother's sins had caught up with her, my father's blood still drying somewhere beneath my nails — and none of it mattered.

Nothing did. Especially not now, with his hand sliding lower, his mouth ghosting along my shoulder where the fabric had fallen away.

“Chris…Christian…” I gasped slightly, tears slowly cascading my eyes.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. And I still wanted him more than I had ever wanted anything in my life.

"You don't get to do this," I whispered, even as my head tilted back against his shoulder on its own. I sniffled, hating myself for showing him how weak he made me. "You don't get to almost kill me with wanting you and then just—" I shut myself up, embarrassed and heartbroken at my admittance.

Fuck you, Scarlett.

Yes, you still love him, but he doesn't need to know that.

"I get to do whatever I want." His lips brushed the shell of my ear, and his voice dropped into something low and rough, something that curled all the way down my spine.

My panties stuck to my heated flesh and I arched my butt towards him but he was not done punishing me. I was aroused by his closeness, by his touch, by the look in his eyes, by his presence, by his lips and I hated myself for it.

"You're mine, Scarlett. Every part of you. This—" his fingers grazed lower to one of my breasts, barely there, just enough to make my knees threaten to give out, "—this is mine too. It always was."

"I hate you," I breathed, and even I could hear how little it sounded like the truth.

"Good." His mouth curved against my skin. "Hate me while I take my time with you. I've waited four years. I'm not in a hurry tonight."

His phone rang.

The sound cut through the room and it sounded like salvation to my ears. I felt him go rigid behind me. He didn't move immediately, his hand still resting low on my hip, his jaw tight in the mirror like he was seriously considering not answering it.

"Fuck." The word came out low and vicious, aimed at the phone and not at me.

He spun me around until I was facing him and before I could get a single word out, his mouth crashed down on mine.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't asking permission. His hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head backwards, deepening the kiss and taking my breath away. The kiss was harsh and passionate and demanding, enough to get me dripping and aching. He sought my tongue and I gave him entrance. I gripped the front of his shirt without meaning to, some traitorous, starving part of me kissing him back just as hard, four years of silent pain burning out in a single breathless moment.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing like we'd been running.

He pressed his forehead to mine, his eyes glinting somewhere between gray and gold, and his voice came out rough, quiet, absolutely certain.

"You taste even better than I remember, Scar. You're mine, always and forever," he said, "You can hate me all you want, princess. But your body already belongs to me, and before I'm done, so will the rest of you."

He pulled away, eyes still fixed on me, drinking in my disheveled, breathless state.

“Let me go Christian! This is wrong. This is all shades of wrong even for you. Father hurt you but he didn't take away your humanity.” I said, more tears rolling down my eyes.

“Trust me when I say there nothing humane in me princess. And I'm never, ever letting you go. I would die before I even consider it.”

Then he was gone, the door shutting hard behind him, and I was left standing there alone, lips still burning, legs barely able to hold me up, with no idea what had just happened to me — or how badly I still wanted it to happen again.