The Enemy in My Bed by L.K. Shaw

Chapter 9

Mila

I don’t feelan inkling of guilt for eavesdropping on Death’s conversation. Or for pretending to be asleep. I’d had a lot of time to practice when I’d been with Maksim. I’d discovered that people, more often than not, see what they want to see. This man, though, sees too much. If I’m not careful, he’ll pull everything from me.

“Who did you think you were talking to earlier? Tonight, and last night after I returned to my playroom? The person who has never spoken to you before?” he asks.

My heart skips a beat and my pulse picks up. I don’t talk about my dreams. Not to anyone. Not since that first time with my mother.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Death pinches my nipple through my tee shirt, and I suck in a breath at the sensation.

“Mila.” His voice drops in tone and there’s a warning in it.

“I told you. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I repeat firmly. There are some secrets I won’t share. They’re not his to learn.

There’s another pinch, only this time he pulls the hyper-sensitive tip. I cry out in pain. But just as quickly, the pain morphs into a numbing pleasure. He releases his grip and gently kneads my breast, soothing the lingering ache.

“Is that really the answer you want to give me?” he rasps against my ear.

I shake my head. “My dreams are my own.”

Death bites down on my earlobe, sucking it between his lips. “So, he visits you in your dreams, then?”

Cursing my slip, I bite my tongue again, determined not to give in.

“How long have you been dreaming about him?” Another pinch and pluck.

I clutch at his hand, but instead of trying to get him to release his hold, I secure it tighter to me. He murmurs approval against my neck and grazes his teeth across my skin. A shudder runs through me.

His rock hard cock digs into my ass. He shifts and it slips between my legs. My traitorous body opens to him. I gasp, and behind me Death groans, the vibration traveling straight to my core.

“How long, Mila?” Death asks again, rolling his pelvis, his cock gliding along my pussy, the tiny bit of fabric of my panties doing nothing to dim the sensation.

He’s hot and hard, steel encased in velvet. The cotton is damp, grower wetter with each gentle thrust he makes.

“My whole life,” I spit out.

At last Death removes his hand from my breast, but only to slowly slide it down my stomach. My muscles clench, and I hold my breath. His finger teases the elastic waistband, dipping just underneath the edge of the cotton fabric. He’s so close to my center. Just a small movement. That’s all it would take.

“Who is he?” He continues taunting me with only a ghost of a touch across my lower belly. As though he’s daring me to ask him to keep going. As though it’s my choice to make. Because then I’m the one who wanted it. He didn’t merely take from me. I can almost hate him for using my pleasure against me.

Just because he wants me to ask, it doesn’t mean he isn’t above coaxing my weakness out of me. Death begins to pump his hips in short, shallow movements. With each one, the head of his cock butts against my clit. The place just below where his finger lightly caresses me.

My breathing is choppy, and every nerve in my body tingles. He surrounds me. Encompasses me. He is all I smell. All I feel. It’s overpowering. Yet, I want more.

“Please,” I beg him.

Death stops moving, and I whimper.

“Give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you need,” his baritone voice deepens.

He’s right too, and I hate him for it. I do need it. My flesh is sensitive. My clit throbs.

“Who is he, Mila?” he asks one more time.

Tears of anger, pain, and frustration threaten to spill. God. Maksim was right. I am nothing but a whore. A needy cunt.

“He is Death. He visits my dreams from Hell.”

I can sense his need to keep battering me with questions, so I grab his hand in mine. “You said,” I beg. “Please.”

He left me on edge, and I need the promise of release. At last, he answers my plea. His fingers slide the last few inches and collide with my clit. I press myself into his touch. He flicks the sensitive flesh, then calms the jolt of pure pleasure with a gentle rubbing motion.

Round and round, up and down. In tandem, his hips begin to rock again, the hard line of his cock gliding along my pussy lips. Soon, all thoughts leave me as arousal takes over.

My real-life Death knows how to play my body. He gathers the wetness from my slit and returns to rubbing, the friction not yet enough to push me over. Only enough to make me go mad with the denial of it. I chase the feeling, wanting to grab hold of it.

“Look at me,” he growls.

I whip my head to the side, and his lips claims mine in a fierce kiss. They’re soft and damp and perfect. His tongue darts out to tease me, matching the flicking motion of his finger. The seam of my mouth parts under the persuasive touch. Death’s fingers pick up the pace as the kiss deepens. I reach up and thread my fingers through his hair, my nails digging into his scalp, holding him closer.

He groans into my mouth. A small burst of feminine pride warms me. He hits the right spot and an explosion of ecstasy shatters through me. The tension builds, and it only takes a few more perfect movements of his finger to light the fuse on my orgasm. My body shudders, and my back arches, pushing my ass even harder against him.

Tingles of energy race down my legs and into my toes. He continues the kiss for a moment longer, but I can already feel his withdrawal. For the briefest moment I imagine that Death cares about me. About my pleasure. But as he removes his hand from beneath my panties and slides his cock out from between my legs, the picture dissolves and I’m forced back into reality. He doesn’t care about me. Not in the slightest.

It’s nothing but an illusion.