Chapter 4

The Devil's Kiss

It wasn't the exploratory kiss from the night before. This kiss was a punishment and a plea, a desperate and hungry clash of teeth and tongues. 

It was the devil's kiss, promising damnation and delivering a taste of heaven. He backed her up against the rough wall of the boathouse.

His body pinning hers, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her hip with a force that was both painful and exhilarating. 

He was reclaiming her, re-marking his territory, and God help her, she was letting him.

She kissed him back with all the fury and frustration inside her, her hands fisting in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

 She bit his lower lip, hard and he groaned. A deep primal sound of approval that went straight to her core. His hand slid from her hip to her thigh, hooking her leg and pulling it up around his waist. 

The thin cotton of her sundress was no barrier at all. She could feel the hard ridge of his cock against her, a demand she was powerless to resist.

"Tell me to stop," he growled against her mouth, his breathing ragged. "Tell me to leave you alone."

She shook her head, her body arching into him. "Never."

That was all the permission he needed. With a swift and decisive movement, he hooked his fingers in the neckline of her sundress and ripped. 

The fabric tore with a satisfying sound, exposing her breasts to the cool dusty air. He bent his head, taking one hard nipple into his mouth.

He was sucking and biting it with a fierce intensity that made her cry out. His other hand was busy, fumbling with the button of his shorts.

This wasn't the moonlit, tender lovemaking from the night before. But this was fast, frantic and raw. It was a fight for dominance, a battle waged with tongues and teeth and desperate hands. 

He freed himself, and without preamble, without any pretense of gentleness, he lifted her and impaled her on his cock.

The full invasion stole her breath. He was right, he was the devil. And she was willingly going to hell with him. 

He held her against the wall, driving into her with a brutal and desperate rhythm that spoke of all the words they couldn't say. Each thrust was a punishment for last night's rejection. And each gasp was a plea for forgiveness. 

The boathouse was filled with the sounds of their coupling, the slap of skin against skin, their ragged breaths mingling with the scent of gasoline and the lake.

Her orgasm was a thief in the night, stealing up on her without warning, a blinding climax that made her convulse in his arms. She buried her face in his neck to muffle her scream as waves of pleasure. Much more intense than before, crashed through her. 

He followed her moments later with a shuddering groan, his body tensing as he spilled into her, a hot and possessive flood.

For a moment, they just stood there, a tangled sweaty mess against the wall of the boathouse. Reality, in the form of the bright morning light filtering through the dusty windows, began to intrude. 

He slowly lowered her to the ground, and the loss of his body heat was a chilling emptiness.

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. He looked down at her, at her torn dress and her kiss-swollen lips, and the look on his face was a mixture of awe and horror.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse. "I didn't mean to… I lost control."

"Did you?" Anna challenged, pulling the ruined edges of her dress together to cover herself. 

"Or did you finally take what you've wanted for years?"

The question hung in the air, the same one from the night before. But this time it was an accusation, not a confession. He flinched. "This is a mess, Anna."

"We're the mess," she corrected him. "You made sure of that when you told me to forget it ever happened."

"And I was wrong," he admitted, the words surprising her. "I was a coward. I saw you, this… this incredible woman, and I panicked. 

And I saw Richard's face, the betrayal, the end of everything. So I tried to stuff you back into the box marked 'friend's daughter'. But you don't fit in there anymore. Neither do I."

It was the most honest thing he had said, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't a promise, it was just another admission, another layer to their impossible situation.

"So what now?" She asked. "We just sneak around? Steal moments in dusty boathouses? Lie to my father's face every morning?"

"I don't know," he said, and the vulnerability in his voice was a weapon she could have used against him. "But I know I can't stay away from you."

It was what she wanted to hear, but it tasted like ash. It wasn't a declaration of love; it was a confession of weakness. He was addicted, and so was she.

"You have to go," he said, echoing his words from the night before, but this time, his tone was different. It was regretful.

"Your father will be looking for us. Go change. We'll… we'll figure this out."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She turned and walked away, her bare feet silent on the dusty floorboards. She didn't look back.

When she got back to the main house, she could hear her father on the phone in his office, laughing about some business deal. The sound of his easy and untroubled happiness was like a knife in her heart.

She slipped up to her room, the torn dress a shameful secret she clutched to her chest.

She stood in front of her mirror, looking at her reflection. The girl who had arrived at this lake house a week ago was gone. And in her place was this stranger, with her wild eyes and her bruised lips and her heart full of dangerous and delicious poison. 

She was the girl who played with fire and she had a feeling she was about to get burned.