Wicked In His Hands
𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐒. 𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄.
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"Breathe, angel," he murmured mockingly. "Oh, wait-you can't."
Her hands clawed at his wrist, tapping-fucking tapping-as if he'd let go of her.
𝘕𝘰.
Not until she learned.
Her body trembled, her kicks weakening. Her vision blurred as the water swallowed her, lungs burning, her fight dimming.
Until she went still.
A twisted satisfaction unfurled in his chest. That reckless, infuriating fire in her-the one that drove him fucking insane-was snuffed out.
Only then did he loosen his grip, his fingers slipping from her tangled, soaked hair, letting her body slump back against the wet tiles.
She collapsed, water dripping from her lips, her maroon-red eyes fluttering shut, her chest barely rising in shallow, shaky breaths.
He inhaled sharply, his own breaths ragged, raging.
His gaze flickered, scanning the space-the dim lighting casting shadows along the glossy black tiles, the steam clinging to the mirror, the faint scent of rose and vanilla clinging to the air.
And then-𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘪𝘵.
𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭.
Lacy scraps of delicate lingerie-her lingerie, splayed haphazardly on the floor. Deep crimson. Embedded with her initials, A.V, in gold. Lacy flowers in wicked black.
His lips curled.
A slow, dark smirk.
Well, we can't have you waking up too soon. angel.
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