He wasn’t wrong. I’d come for him, driven by a need I couldn’t name—a mix of vengeance for a deal gone wrong that cost me more than money, and a primal hunger I couldn’t shake since I’d first heard his name. But I wasn’t about to let him see that. Not yet.
“And you’re not here for conversation,” I murmured, leaning in just enough for my breath to ghost over his ear. “So what do you want, Roman?”
His chuckle was dark, a sound that vibrated through me, and before I could react, his hand slid to the small of my back, fingers splaying possessively. “I want to know how a woman like you tastes when she’s begging.”
The words hit like a physical touch, igniting a fire that pooled between my thighs. I should’ve pulled away, should’ve slapped him for the audacity, but instead, I pressed closer, the hard ridge of his cock evident through his trousers as it brushed against my hip. My cunt throbbed, a desperate ache I hadn’t felt in months, and I hated how easily he’d stripped me to raw need.
“Not here,” I hissed, though my body screamed otherwise. The crowd around us pulsed with the slow, sensual wail of a saxophone, oblivious to the tension crackling between us, but I knew better. Roman wasn’t a man for discretion.
“Here’s perfect,” he countered, his grip tightening as he guided me toward a shadowed alcove near the back of the club. My heart pounded, half-thrill, half-fear, as the noise of the room faded into a dull roar. The wall was cool against my back, his body a furnace caging me in, and when his lips crashed into mine, it wasn’t a kiss—it was a claim. His tongue invaded, tasting of dominance, while his hands roamed with brutal intent, one slipping up my dress to grip my bare thigh, the other tangling in my hair to yank my head back.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he growled against my mouth, his fingers finding the lace of my thong and pushing it aside with no hesitation. Two thick digits plunged into my pussy, stretching me with a rough precision that made me gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. The salty musk of my arousal mingled with the gritty air, and I felt the wildfire of his touch devour every nerve. My hips bucked instinctively, chasing the pressure, the friction, as he curled his fingers inside me, hitting that sweet spot that had me biting my lip to stifle a moan.
“You think you can control this?” I panted, even as my body betrayed me, grinding against his hand. I needed to regain some semblance of power, to remind him I wasn’t just prey. My hand dropped between us, palming the hard length of his dick through his pants, stroking with a deliberate slowness that made him hiss. “You’re not the only one who plays dirty.”
His eyes darkened, a dangerous edge flaring as he pulled his fingers from my cunt, slick with my wetness, and brought them to his mouth. He sucked them clean, the sight so filthy, so primal, it nearly undid me. “Oh, Raven, you have no idea how dirty I can get.”
Before I could retort, he spun me around, pressing my chest against the wall, my palms flat against the rough brick. The sound of his belt unbuckling was sharp, a promise of what was coming, and when he yanked my dress up over my hips, the cool air hit my bare ass, making me shiver. His hand cracked down hard, a stinging spank that echoed in the tight space, and I bit back a cry, the pain blooming into a dark, twisted pleasure. “That’s for thinking you can tease me,” he rasped, his voice thick with lust as he rubbed the spot he’d struck, soothing and threatening all at once.
I heard the rip of a foil packet, the brief pause before the blunt head of his cock pressed against my entrance. He didn’t ask, didn’t wait—he just thrust, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. My pussy clenched around him, the stretch bordering on painful, but fuck, it was the kind of hurt I craved. “Goddamn, you’re tight,” he grunted, pulling out only to slam back in, setting a punishing rhythm that had my tits pressed harder against the wall, my nipples aching through the thin fabric of my dress.
Each thrust was a power play, a battle for dominance I wasn’t sure I wanted to win. I arched back, meeting his movements, the wet slap of skin on skin a filthy soundtrack in the semi-darkness. His hand slid around, finding my clit with ruthless accuracy, rubbing tight circles that had me trembling, on the edge of shattering. “Don’t you dare cum yet,” he warned, his teeth grazing my neck, the sharp nip sending sparks down my spine. “You’ll wait for me.”
“Fuck you,” I gasped, but the defiance was weak, drowned by the need building like a tsunami. He laughed, low and wicked, and reached into his pocket, pulling out something cold and metallic. My breath hitched as I felt the bite of steel—nipple clamps, linked by a delicate chain. He tugged my dress down just enough to expose my boobs, fastening the clamps with a precision that made me whimper. The sharp pinch morphed into a throbbing ache, each thrust of his cock tugging at the chain, amplifying every sensation until I was a quivering mess.
“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, slowing his pace, dragging out each agonizing stroke as he toyed with the chain. “Tell me you’re mine to fuck however I want.”