BROKEN: A Dark Mystery Romance (LOVE IS WAR Book 2)

by Shayne Ford

  Slowly, he trails the skin. And slowly he exhales. I could come any moment now.

  A teasingly deliberate move, probes the soft skin at the junction of my thighs, his teeth grazing me with their sharp edge.

  I look down, watching as much as feeling every single stroke of his mouth.

  His fingertips leisurely drift down, sliding even further beneath the band of fabric.

  He parts his lips and runs his tongue against my skin, from the bottom to the top of my slit, electrifying the smooth, pulsing flesh between my folds.

  From shoulders to my legs I get covered in goosebumps.

  He does it again, this time flicking his eyes up. I jerk against his touch, a moan falling from my lips.

  He smiles–– I knew he would as he sinks his teeth into me. The pain is so sharp, the pleasure high and grabbing. I rock my hips, grinding against his mouth, feeling him straight on me, tongue on my clit, lips on my folds, hot breath on my throbbing sex.

  I tilt my hips, wanting more.

  His fist closes around the band of fabric as he pulls it to the side. His knuckles hurt me, his tongue quickly making me forget the pain. He runs its tip between my folds making that upward motion again, no fabric between us. My grip tightens on his hair.

  Next, he presses his tongue flat on my flesh and drags it up, giving me a mind blowing stroke.

  I rock my hips against his touch again, crazed and still asking for more. He swirls his tongue against my clit while I roll my hips in perfect synch with him.

  And then his lips mold to my flesh and trap my clit between their softness. He moves his tongue adding the suction.

  Addictive pleasure shakes its way through me.

  My hips tilt, even more, my thighs spreading even wider as he strokes me with his lips and tongue. Propped only on my shoulders and the high heel of my right shoe, I arch against him with all my power. His free hand goes to my backside, giving me support and holding me against his hungry mouth.

  He slides his lips lower, the moisture coming from his mouth mixing with my wetness.

  Heaving, I press myself against his lips. My spine arches, even more, my heel crying under me, unable to support my weight.

  He flicks his hand up, rips my panties and lets them fall per me before he sinks his nails into my thigh. A growl leaves my lips when he thrusts his tongue against me, and enters me.

  The sensation rips through me like a bolt of lightning. He sucks on me while he swirls his tongue and keeps sliding it back and forth.

  Panting, I moan and groan, crying out his name between short gasps.

  He fuels my torment with his strokes, giving me the pleasure that I seek. I’m right there in that perfect spot. High, shaking, sensing the big spike, ready to take over my senses when a hoarse voice slithers out of me, launching from the bottom of my throat.

  “Fuck me... Please...”

  The echo of my voice still vibrates against the glass, when he pushes to his feet.

  “Turn around,” he says.

  He sounds calm, even cold, but my mind is such a blur, I don’t have the means to analyze it.

  His hand brushes his fly, his fingers working it open before his fist wraps tight around the root of his cock. He pulls it out, without unfastening his belt. Rock hard and slightly curved up, perfectly outlined against his wool pants. He flips his free hand and grips his hard shaft as well, his palm on top of his erection, rubbing the ridge of his hard flesh.

  “Turn around, I said.”

  He sounds almost rude, and yet nothing fazes me as I keep my eyes on his erection and follow his moves, mesmerized.

  Long, caressing strokes, that I feel straight between my legs.

  The space between us disappears when he takes a step in my direction, and palms the side of my neck and my cheek, his fingers sliding into the back of my hair.

  “Turn around, Tess... I want to fuck you,” he breathes into me.

  His voice slices through me, a double edge sword, made of fear and pleasure. I sense danger in his grip, but I refuse to think about it.

  He locks my lips into a harsh, possessive kiss before he lets me turn around, my lips bleeding.

  “Good,” he says, sounding as if he tips his gaze down.

  His palm traces the contour of my hip–– his touch more tender than his voice, He keeps stroking himself, once in a while letting his heated, hard flesh touching my skin.

  His hand rounds my hip and sweep my folds, two fingers parting them, crushing my clit. I feel a dash of pain wrapped in a whole lot pleasure.

  I won’t complain.

  And then I sense the chiseled crown of his erection, its smooth, silky skin pressing against my entrance.

  Once he aligns himself with me and enters me a little, he brings his free hand to my lips. Instantly, I smell his arousal. My nostrils flare, my lips parting as my lungs fill with the aphrodisiac scent.

  His fingers move.

  His shaft stays steady, but even so, I feel him throbbing. And even so, I clench around him.

  My mounds crush against the wall of glass, bringing me a much needed, brief moment of self-awareness. Not far from us, in another skyscraper lights dot the floors, revealing empty cubicles.

  In the distance the skyline tapers, the panoramic view becoming flat.

  That’s where I live.

  Live.

  My lips move, yet the word is stripped of sound.

  He pushes into me a little further, and the pleasure rises, sweeping through me, making me lose my train of thought for a moment.

  Eyes closed, I tip my head back, longing for the support of this shoulder. The moment I open my eyes, the sky flickers millions of stars at me.

  How did I get from there, the place where I live, here with this man, on top of the highest skyscraper in the city. How did I get plucked out of that life and thrown in this unreal experience?

  Was it destiny?

  What was it?

  My thoughts drop dead again as he breathes along the column of my neck, grazing my skin with his lips. I tip my head to the side while he brushes my hair over my shoulder, and slowly strokes me between my legs.

  He pushes forward into me, but not enough to fill me up, and I start rocking my hips, my center eager to feel him.

  “Don’t rush,” he says.

  I don’t, but I keep moving, my body wanting him, refusing my control.

  “When was the last time he fucked you?”

  This question takes me entirely by surprise, his words throwing a bucket of ice on me.

  “What?” I gasp, stiff beneath his touch.

  Suddenly awake, and out of my daze, I smell the danger coming in waves to me. It’s no longer an illusion, a suspicion or a twisted thought.

  It’s as real as the tick glass confining us, and the winter night prowling on us, and it hits me with the power of a full-speed train, but it’s too late to put up a defense.

  And yet, I try.

  My instinct kicks in, making me writhe against his body. His arms steel around me as he moves and enters me with one long, unstoppable stroke.

  I cry. He does it again. I want to scream. He cups my mouth. I manage to bite him, and he starts to pound me until the pleasure shoots high in my body and I fall from an amazing high, a fountain of sinful sensations pouring into my depths.

  “Fuck you,” I growl through clenched teeth.

  He clutches my neck, while I run my tongue over my lips tasting his blood.

  He plunges into me, breaking my body again, crushing my mounds against the glass.

  My hands leave trails of sweat.

  “Tell me,” he barks. “Has he touched you?”

  I feel his pain in his voice. No coldness or calmness can conceal it. No gimmick can mask it. No trick can hide it.

  It’s raw, intense and runs so deep, it makes me wonder where it ends.

  Why does it matter to him?

  Well, it does. I can feel it in the power of his grip and the fire of his breath.

  He got
trapped in his own game.

  And now, I start to doubt that it was only a game.

  My words shoot from my mouth.

  “I thought you knew everything. I thought you had eyes in my house and could listen to me,” I say sarcastically.

  He rams his flesh deep into me, in one swift motion his fist swallowing my hair, his grip forcing my head back, his body stilling.

  I groan, overpowered by the sheer pain and shaken by the spikes of pleasure still barreling through me.

  “Answer me,” he grunts, his voice thick with anger, and menacing, confirming my suspicion.

  That. This. Is. Not. A Game.

  I shudder at the thought.

  I relish the thought.

  It’s possible that I lose my mind.

  I draw pleasure from his anger, the fear growing in me, as real and terrifying as it feels, doing nothing but increase my pleasure.

  I’m sick. So sick. And so eager to dive into his darkness.

  Legs spread, back arched, face tipped up, and hands slipping off the wall, I shallowly breathe as I taste the twisted pleasure.

  He jerks me again, trying to make me talk.

  Instead, I curve my lips into a smile.

  I was right.

  He fell in his own trap, and now he feels as powerless as me. And he is as hungry as I am.

  And there is nothing he can do.

  Tormented, he slides into me hard. My walls extend as he fills me to the brim. All I feel is his pulsing flesh against my walls. All I sense is the dark emotion sweeping through him.

  “Has he?” he rasps again.

  All the turmoil that he brought to me, comes to my mind.

  His teasing clips, and his silence. His following me around, and the baits he threw at me.

  “Have you fucked her lately?” I toss at him, drinking from the same cup of poison.

  His hand locks around my neck, squeezing me like pliers.

  “I asked you a question, Tess,” he barks.

  “Would I be here if he had?”

  My words fall between us, giving him the much-needed revelation.

  His grip slackens, his fingers splaying. No longer wanting to crush the flesh but to make it warm, alive. He slides his palm down my neck, and chest, and cups a breast, smoothly running his thumb over my nipple.

  He pulls back a little and slides into me again, no longer plunging as if he wants to split me open.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I mutter as he goes silent for a few moments.

  He leans closer to me, the wool of his jacket no longer touching my skin but the crisp cotton silk of his shirt.

  “That’s a question for another time,” he says

  I whip my gaze to the side, a mirror giving me a glimpse of his reflection.

  He’s clothed, I’m almost naked. Our silhouettes look like a mix of light and dark. I get lost in his embrace as he lifts his arms, seals my hands against the glass, and begins to pound me.

  My eyes get heavy, my body relishing the feel of him in me, my gaze sealed to the mirror, absorbing the sight of him as he takes me. His thick, hard length disappearing in my depths.

  Over and over again.

  Every single time, nudging me closer to that beautiful edge.

  My moans thread through his grunts.

  In a trance, I sense the magical relief so close to me, almost sweeping through me.

  He picks up the pace, his force increasing. No power is left in me to keep me standing. I collapse into his arms as we both come.

  His name lifts off my lips as we seal a bond, witnessed only by the shining stars.

  13

  TESS

  By the time, I come to my senses, he’s gone.

  I vaguely remember him whispering words in my ear before I heard the swish of his clothes as he pulled away.

  The realization of what just happened comes to me blaring.

  What. The. Fuck.

  With fresh eyes, I glance around. With heightened perception, I take everything in. With unclouded self-awareness, I process the information.

  I’m fucked.

  Although I can’t grasp the meaning of my thought entirely, my gut is telling me that I’m going down, sucked into something bigger than I can imagine. Spiraling down into an universe darker than I can comprehend.

  As reality comes running to me, emotions start galloping through me as well. Fear, confusion. A sense of an impending disaster.

  I look down. The ripped pieces of fabric lie on the floor fueling that dreary feeling.

  My knees start to shake as my whole body seems to be in peril, hurting like an open wound. The wind starts crying again, mirroring my mood.

  What have I done?

  Slowly, I pick up my clothes, pull my dress up and struggle to slip my straps in place. The fabric is torn at the neckline and at the bottom of the hem, a panel of silk barely hanging.

  My underwear is trashed, and one of my heels is almost broken.

  Oh, my God.

  How am I supposed to go home like this?

  My hand flies to my mouth.

  Allan... I have to find an explanation for him.

  But how?

  No helpful thought spears through my mind. My gaze falls to the side. In the corner, lies my purse.

  I ball up my panties and tuck then in. With quivering fingers, I retrieve my phone.

  The alerts on the screen display several missed calls and a few text messages, most of them from Allan. Some of them from Anna and Viola. He must’ve called them. I hope he didn’t call my mom as well.

  I look down again at my tattered dress. I can’t walk in the party venue, looking like this. They’ll call an ambulance and have me committed.

  My lip hurts.

  I pick up a small mirror from my purse and check my face. There’s a swollen red split on my upper lip. I drag my gaze down, studying my neck. Red marks dot my skin. These will be dark like ink by tomorrow.

  I run my fingers through my hair, combing it all back when my gaze flies to the elevator buttons.

  How come no one has registered that the car was stopped? And then I remember his words.

  It’s his building.

  I hope it is, the alternative scaring me. I look up, searching for cameras. I don’t see them, but that doesn’t mean that they are not there.

  The next thought comes to me like a swaying sword.

  I can’t use this elevator to get down.

  The security guy may be paid to keep his mouth shut, but he’s not blind.

  I step out of the cube of glass and walk into a wide and short corridor that leads to a door.

  Silence greets me as I swing it open and gaze into the dark depths of a stairwell.

  “Welcome to hell,” I mutter to myself, grappling with horror.

  Here I am, stranded at the top of a building, looking as if I was dragged by car, trying to find my way out of this place while avoiding my husband.

  I remind myself that this is the path Sebastien used to slither out of the building. I should be able to find my way out as well. I take a few stairs down while making an effort to control my shallow breathing. The last thing I want is to get dizzy and pass out.

  There must be another elevator in this big building. I push a door open on a lower floor.

  A different corridor, this time washed with light sprawls in front of me. I peel off my shoes, and walk down the hallway, nervously looking around. I pass by cubicles with wide, wooden desks and plants that look asleep.

  Where is the elevator? My gaze sweeps the walls, looking for signs pointing in that direction.

  I reach another hallway. This one is darker, prompting me to pull to a halt. My instinct tells me to spin around, and go looking in another area, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.

  As I make the trip back I start to muse.

  I never considered myself adventurous. The boldest things I’ve ever done were more akin to jogging in the park late in the evening or trying a new muffin at the coffeeh
ouse.

  This is way out of my comfort zone.

  My phone vibrates in my purse, chasing away my thoughts.

  There’s no one I want to talk to right now, so I let it be.

  Good thing, I have a signal. I keep walking when a soft whirring noise travels through me.

  The elevator.

  The thought injects some hope in me, and I quickly start to follow the sound. It takes me to a side door, and a different room that has its walls painted in warm colors, and the space flooded with light.

  “Welcome home,” I mutter as a regular elevator for normal people like me enters my line of sight.

  I even crack a smile.

  I feel so much relief when I press the button for the ground floor and hear the whisper of the doors sliding shut. I take a small step to the side and retreat into a corner, making sure I avoid some hidden camera.

  It’s a long ride to the lobby and enough time to put on my shoes. I check my hair, my lips, and my face in the mirror.

  I have no makeup on my face except for smudges of mascara. I look as if I fought a storm. And something tells me that I did.

  The doors slide open on the first floor.

  First, I crane my neck out and surveil the lobby. A few people have left the party and now stroll out.

  Attendants hold the doors open as the couples walk out. Parking valets rush to hand them the car keys.

  I sneak behind a group and dash across the foyer straight into the coatroom. The coat girl gets busy with a group of people.

  Keeping my chin down, I slide behind them, my eyes scanning the first rack. There’s no way I can find my coat without her help, and talking to her right now would only bring unnecessary attention to me.

  I guess, desperate times call for desperate measures.

  I stretch my hand out and grab the first coat that looks remotely like a woman’s garment. I wrap my arm around it, and quietly sneak out of the room.

  My back straightens as I drape the coat over my shoulders. It’s at least two sizes larger, but I have bigger problems than this, so I slap the thought away.

  “Miss?”

  The doorman greets me with a smile.

  “Do you need a car?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He motions to another man who rushes to the limousine parked on the side.