Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
He doesn’t give me the chance to get over the shock of him doing this here. In the middle of the hallway where I can hear low male voices not too far away. Does he think to defile me in my father’s house? Right on the floor like a pair of animals?
He withdraws his hand and holds his finger in front of my face, wet with my traitorous desire. “Tell me again how you don’t want this.”
Time and time again, stretching back through my entire life, I have bent instead of standing my ground. Every. Single. Time. If I was smart, I’d do it this time, too. He tenses against my back, his body filled with the promise of violence and more. Would he be gentle with me if I conceded, if I admitted just how much I want this?
I’ll never know. “I don’t want this.” Even as my mouth forms the words, my hips lift against his, the slightest undulation to betray me.
Jafar curses. “Stubborn until the bitter end.” He shoves up my robe and shifts his grip to the back of my neck, pushing my face against the cool tile of the floor. A rip and then my panties are gone, tossed against the wall in my line of sight. Discarded and forgotten.
I’ll be damned before I join them.
I struggle, fighting to turn over. When he keeps me pinned, words fly free. “You do this, you better look me in the fucking eyes while you do it.”
Jafar, the bastard, laughs. “Did you think you had a say? You don’t.” He uses his thighs to spread my legs obscenely and then he palms me again, spearing me with one finger and then two. “What a treacherous daughter you are, wet and panting on the floor of your father’s house, riding the fingers of the man who took everything from him.”
He’s right, but I can’t quite gain control of my hips. His fingers feel so incredible inside me, but he doesn’t drive them deep like I crave. He’s cruel in his gentleness, in the slow touch while he holds me in this vulgar position so effortlessly.
“I hate you,” I gasp. “I don’t want this.” Pleasure coils through me, tighter and tighter, centering on my clit and the slow circling of his thumb there. I press my fingers hard against the tile, desperate for more leverage to force him to finish this. So close.
His hand drops away and then his voice is in my ear, low and rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “Repeat it enough, and it might even be true.” He lost his cultured facade somewhere along the way, and I’d give anything to be able to see the look on his face right now. The sound of his zipper dragging down seems to echo unnaturally loud against our harsh breathing. And then his cock is there, pressing at my entrance.
I tense, waiting, hoping, that he’ll drive it deep.
Nothing. Nothing but the threat of him.
The promise of him.
He’s giving me one last chance, I realize. One last chance to change my mind, to be anything other than what I am. Easier to pretend I fought this, to say over and over again that I didn’t want it. My body knows the truth. My mind does, too.
I was never that good at lying to myself.
I can’t move my hips in my current position, my legs spread and ass lifted. I don’t have to. I have the best weapon in the world. “What are you waiting for, Jafar? Lost your nerve?” I swallow hard, but my voice still comes out just as ragged as his. “We both know I can’t make you stop. I won’t make you stop.”
He goes still for one eternal moment. I have the hysterical thought that he’s going to make me beg, to put my betrayal into words the same way I’ve put it into action.
And then he grips my hip and shoves deep. I scream. I can’t help it. I might be a virgin only in the most technical sense—that I’ve never had a man inside me—but any physical evidence of it is long gone thanks to the illicit sex toys I secreted into my room years ago.
It doesn’t seem to matter. He’s big, bigger than anything I’ve played with to date, and he’s not giving me time to adjust. Jafar pulls out and shoves back in, hard enough to move me several inches up the hallway despite his hold on my neck. The tile bites my knees and my hands slap the floor, sounds slipping from my lips that are more animal than woman. It hurts. Everything hurts. But I can’t stop arching back against him as much as I’m able, the pain twining with pleasure that I have no way to describe.
The earlier denied orgasm rolls over me, and my breathless cries morph into a single word. His name. A benediction and a curse. Over and over and over again. “Jafar, Jafar, Jafar.”