Kat and Mouse (9 page)

She couldn’t.

With strength born of desperate preservation, she planted her palms on his shoulders and shoved. Her palms burned from the heat of his body. Her pussy constricted at their solid, sculpted strength. He stumbled backward. A step. Enough for Katrina to realise she’d made a mistake.

Eyes the colour of sin stared at her. Blacker than a new-moon midnight. Hunger and strength burned in their inky depths. Hunger for her. To dominate her. Possess her. Her sex gushed with her own hunger and her nipples tightened to painful points of concentrated desire.

The lips that only seconds earlier had bruised hers curled in a slight smile. “A lioness after all.”

Katrina glared at him, clenching her fists, the steely ice of her cuffs biting into her left palm. “Touch me again—“

“And you’ll come?” The grin grew wider. More conceited. “I know. But not until I say so.”

The arrogant comment turned her blood to fire. She stared at him, her heated flesh exposed to his lazy inspection. Back flattened to the wall, she had nowhere to go.

But to him
?

Conflict tore at her. She
wanted
to go to him, wanted to feel him take possession of her. But why?

He took the decision away from her. In one abrupt step.

His hands found her body, fingers curling into her hips as he jerked her to him, crushing her mouth with his. His tongue invaded her mouth, plunging past her lips. He grabbed her arse, spun about and shoved her backward, driving her across the suite without breaking the assault on her mouth. Her feet stumbled beneath her and for a split second she thought she was going to land on her arse. But before gravity could claim her, he did.

His grip on her butt cheeks moved and, in three powerful strides, he’d yanked her from the floor, his straining erection smashing her spread folds as she gripped his hips with her thighs.

The room blurred around her and, before she knew what he’d done, before she could react, he’d thrown her on the bed, crushing her to the mattress with a speed both frightening and thrilling, grabbing her hands and yanking her arms above her head. She bucked beneath him, trying to dislodge his weight, but each wild thrash only furthered the contact of their bodies.

Oh, God. What am I doing
?

She writhed on the mattress, the pressing heat of his cock between her legs fuelling the denied want in her being. She had to get him off. Before she submitted to—

A soft click shattered the air. A soft metal click she knew almost as well as her own voice. Her cuffs.

“I have you,
Minette sexy.”

She twisted her head, staring up at her wrists. Both were encircled with steel on either side of the bedhead’s corner post. He’d cuffed her. To the bed. “You bastard.”

He stared down at her. “It is not the first time I have been called such,
cheri
.” And with that, he dragged his hands down the length of her extended arms and took possession of her breasts. “Especially by you.”

Katrina froze. Had she really heard that? That softest of soft utterance forming words she understood but didn’t comprehend? She looked up into his face, this man she knew but didn’t know. Black eyes looked back at her, unreadable, closed to her but burning with an emotion she almost recognised. “Tell me,” she whispered.
Tell me how I know you
…

Those black eyes narrowed. “I won the bet,
ma cher
.” His fingers found her nipples, circling each areola with teasing strokes, as if charting the tiny lumps and bumps of her desire. “There are no answers for you here.” And slowly, slowly, his breath feathering her flesh like warm mist, he lowered his head and took her left nipple in his mouth.

“Oh, God.” Katrina arched beneath him, wanting to be devoured. His teeth and tongue worked the puckered tip in his mouth, drew on it deeply. She cried out again, the wicked sensations his suckling awoke in her both appalling and intoxicating. She planted her feet on either side of his thighs and shoved her hips up, wanting him to feel the sodden world of her sex.

A growl sounded in his throat at the action, and the suckling on her breast became brutal, his hands raking up and down her ribcage in torrid caresses that left her flesh stinging and her pulse pounding. As if frantic, as though one second deprived of skin-to-skin contact would end his life, he dragged his mouth from her nipple and claimed the other, squeezing and mauling her breasts with increasing frenzy as he did so. His cock ground against her sex, growing harder with each second. Katrina’s rapture-fogged brain marvelled at its contained size. It felt huge. Even trapped by the material of his trousers. What would it be like released? Free? To bury into her centre, owning her, possessing her in a way so deep and elemental she wouldn’t be able to breath?

Her sex gushed with cream at the thought. And with it came another almost suffocating sense of doing this all before… these very thoughts, these very carnal reactions.

Flynn
…

The name flittered through her head, and with it came the mocking hazel-green eyes, the self-deprecating, sardonic grin. This man consuming her now was nothing like Flynn Marsters. Nothing and yet everything…

She had to know. Before she went insane. “Please.” she called out.

The mouth on her breast jerked free with an audible pop and suddenly he towered over her, kneeling between her spread thighs, black eyes blazing. “Please what?”

“Please tell me how I know you.”

“Will
not
knowing stop you from coming?”

She sucked in a sharp breath, and he nodded at her unspoken answer. “It is a dangerous game you have played, is it not, Katrina O’Lauchlan? It is always dangerous to play with love so.”

Dangerous.

Love.

The two words lashed at Katrina’s soul. The very second the man sank his fingers into her inner thighs and shoved her legs further apart.

“Dangerous and yet so, so addictive,” he murmured, before lowering his head to her spread sex and plunging his tongue between its swollen, sodden lips.

He lapped at her juices, flicked at her clit, his mouth growing more demanding with each second. She bucked into him, anger and pleasure and confusion burning each shallow breath she took. The tension building in her core felt like a living thing—a being in itself of incandescent power and raw hunger. She gasped and shoved her hips forward, closing her eyes as the man yanked her arse from the bed and closed his teeth down on her clit.

A memory crashed over her as her sex flooded with cream: the man who’d destroyed her heart, taking her to heaven, making her feel more than she ever had, the man she’d known was dangerous but didn’t care. Flynn Marsters.

She opened her eyes. Stared down her body at the man between her thighs. Was it Flynn?

How
could
it be
?

As if feeling her eyes on him, he lifted his head and gazed at her. Eyes tortured and haunted and confident all at once.

Katrina sucked in a swift breath. “Flynn.”

His name. A statement. Not a question.

With slow, deliberate intent, he rose up on his knees, his stare locked in hers. His hands moved to his belt. Released the buckle. Lowered his fly.

Katrina’s mouth went dry.

And, as fast and fluid as he’d always been, he penetrated her, his cock stretching her to the limit, burning and stinging and filling her with raw pleasure.

She arched her back, meeting his thrusts with her hips. Her pussy gripped his shaft, she could feel her muscles fold and contract on its turgid length.

The way they had numerous times before.

He pumped into her, his balls smashing her arse, his hands mauling her breasts, his mouth latching onto her neck. Her body thrummed with sexual response. She felt like a living charge of energy being consumed and fed at once. With each thrust of his cock, her blood grew hotter, with each squeeze of his fingers her breathing grew wilder. The mounting tension in her body, radiating from her core out to the very tip of her limbs—fingers, toes—turned into a torturous, tantalizing squirming pressure. Her lips tingled, the soles of her feet burned. She wanted to bury her hands in her lover’s soft, dark hair, but the cuffs kept her imprisoned and controlled, a fact that only fed the wanton lust consuming her. She moaned instead, rolling her head to the side to grant his lips and teeth and tongue greater access to the delicate sensitivity of her neck.

Rough hands conquered her body. Took it and used it. Fingers pinched her nipples, followed by teeth equally as punishing. His tongue painted her breasts with hot strokes of wet hunger before plunging between her lips to demand hers. She gave it to him, the question of his identity a faint shadow flickering in her pleasure-clouded mind.

And all the while his cock continued to own her sex. Long, fierce penetrating strokes that made her blood sing. Frantic, rapid thrusts that tormented her clit until she cried out in delicious submission: “Christ, I’m going to come.”

He lifted his head, his lips bruised from punishing her mouth and breasts, and stared down at her, thrusting into her pussy with brutal need.

“God, I’ve missed hearing you scream that,” he growled, voice completely free of the ambiguous accent. “As much as I’ve missed being inside you.”

Katrina’s eyes snapped wide. The very moment, with a force that made her whole body shudder and quake and thrash, her orgasm took her. Her sex constricted, her throat slammed shut and she arched, glaring up at the man pounding into her, the man whose every wild stroke told her, he too, was erupting, spurting wad after wad of thick, hot desire into her sex. The very man who’d plucked her fantasies from her shamed mind all those years ago and took her to a place she didn’t know could exist. A place of rapture and bliss.

The very man who’d promised her nothing but shattered her heart when, without word, he disappeared from her life.

The very man she’d falling in love with and would always love, no matter how much she hated him and herself.

Flynn Marsters.

She stared up at him, her pussy contracting on his thrusting, pummelling shaft, her climax scorching through her like a raging, ravenous bushfire, and cried out: “Flynn Marsters, you fucking bastard.”

***

Abaddon walked through
The Wicked Lynx’s
main gaming area, watching human and paranormals alike with detached interest. Everything was coming to plan. Flynn Marsters was under his control, albeit reluctantly and tomorrow night, the
Daemon Moon
would be in his—Abaddon’s—possession, not The Big Man’s.

He pictured the flawless stone, its clear diamond composition, its iridescent heart. Within that heart lay his freedom. The Big Man may have thought he’d won, but Abaddon rarely played by the rules, a fact more than one human and demon could attest to.

He curled his lip, letting the inferno that was his core radiate from his being, uncaring of the hisses of surprised pain from those around him. Losing a game of Poker to the head of the paranormal mafia had been foolish, especially when the stakes had been so high: his unquestioning service and obedience.

Not even the Fallen Angel, Lucifer Himself, owned Abaddon. Not until that stupid Poker game, and then, bam. Just like that, what should have been a winning hand became the lock on his imprisonment and servitude. Twenty human years. Who would have thought someone so obsessed with the disgusting human concoction peanut butter, could bluff so well?

Well, fuck that. He wasn’t
anyone’s
lap dog, least of all The Big Man’s.