Primal: London Mob Book Two by Michelle St. James

Then she and Farrell were alone. The one thing she feared and desired more than anything else.
    He looked over at her, his face somehow more menacing — and more sensual — in the candlelight. She held her breath as he reached out, captured her hand in his, lifted it to his mouth. He opened her fingers, revealing her palm, and kissed the center, his lips searing her skin.
    She closed her eyes. Not to try and fight it. There was no fighting. This she already knew. No, she closed her eyes and let herself fall instead.
    He stood, dropping her hand. “Come.”
    He was already to the hall when she rose from her chair. She followed him up the stairs, down the first floor hall. He didn’t turn, didn’t wait for her to catch up. This was Farrell’s game, and they played by his rules.
    A primitive drumbeat had started at the center of her body, radiating outward until it was a pulse between her legs. She was already wet. Already ready. She didn’t know exactly what was to come — she never did with Farrell — but she knew he would own her, and she knew she would welcome his owning.
    They passed Lily’s room, then her own, and came to stop at the very end of the hall. She followed him into a bedroom, and he reached around her, the brush of his arm delivering a shock to her system as he shut the door.
    She waited as he turned away, walked farther into the room. He opened the doors to the terrace wider, and a breeze, fragrant with the fields and the residual heat from the summer day touched her bare arms with gentle fingers. She watched as he pulled a book of matches from the nightstand — Farrell always kept matches in his nightstand — and proceeded to light the candles scattered around the room. She focused on the furnishings as everything was slowly illuminated — the enormous bed carved from a rough wood, the black satin sheets, the heavy, dark furniture, as substantial and strong as Farrell himself. It was a simple room considering the rest of the estate, and yet she had no doubt that everything had been carefully chosen, and none of it was cheap.
    Finally he stopped moving, turned to look at her. There was no doubt in her mind now. No fear of the future or indecision about what was best. Because it didn’t matter what the future held. It didn’t matter what was best. It only mattered that she belonged to him. That she always had and always would, just like he’d said in Cornwall. Allowing him to possess her body was an inevitability.
    She walked toward him, stopping when she was a few inches away. She didn’t touch him at first, just searched his eyes for answers she knew she wouldn’t find, for reassurances he wouldn’t offer. When she finally lay a hand against his chest, allowing the steady rhythm of his heartbeat to pulse against her hand, he closed his eyes.
    Like it was painful. Nearly unbearable.
    Maybe it was.
    She lifted her other hand, began undoing the buttons at the front of his shirt. He opened his eyes, looked deeply into hers as she slowly revealed his magnificent chest. When she was done, she slid her hands up his pecs to his shoulders and pushed the fabric off his body.
    He growled, sweeping her into his arms in one easy motion. Playtime was over. Now he would work her his way.
    Leave no part of her body unexplored.
    Leave no part of her soul untouched.
    He set her next to the bed and reached down, pulling off her tank top. Then he knelt in front of her, untied the drawstring on her pants, slid them off her hips. He lifted each of her feet, gently removing the fabric and tossing it aside. He rocked back on his heels, gazing up at her with the kind of adoration usually reserved for worship.
    She didn’t move. He wanted to look, and he would not be rushed.
    This she also knew.
    Finally he stood, lowering his head to her neck, breathing in the scent of her. He was close, so close, but careful not to touch her, not to let so much as an inch of his skin touch hers. This was the discipline in letting