Since he hadn’t bound her wrists, she was free to pass on a little cruelty of her own. She slid her hands down his long back, and every time his cock made her vagina spasm she dug her fingernails into his skin. He let her do it—but only twice.

Then he pulled out and turned her onto her hands and knees. He forced her legs wider from behind, so wide her belly touched the bed. He entered her with a rough thrust, impaling her hard enough she cried out. But his fingertips found her clitoris and stroked it as he used her from behind, stroked her until she was nearly blind with the need to come.

Søren gripped her by her shoulders, thumbs on the back of her neck, immobilizing her against the bed.

His thrusts seemed endless, as did her desire for them. Long moans escaped her lips, which she tried to stifle with the sheets. Søren’s fingers knew her body too well. He had her trapped at the edge of orgasm. He held her there with his touch, with his organ that slid in and out of her slick hole. He might punish her if she went over the edge, if she came without permission.

She came anyway. She couldn’t help it or stop it. She was too wet and the fingers stroking her were too wet and everything inside her quivered and tensed and there was no telling her body no when it was ready to scream “yes.”

When she came, she buried her mouth against the bed to scream and only the last syllable of it hit the air as he lifted her back against him. She sank down on his cock as he held her on his knees. His hand came around and clasped her throat. His mouth was at her ear so she could hear his ragged breaths. He fucked up and into her until his own release. He inhaled and inhaled, his breath hitching and then he was coming inside her, filling her.

Only when he finished did he release his iron grip on her throat. He let her go and she collapsed onto the bed. Søren lay down on his back next to her, ran one hand through sweat-soaked hair and then used his hand as a pillow.

“You’ll have to apologize to Sheridan about the sheets,” he said.

“What? It’s okay. Come comes out.”

“Blood might not.”

“Blood?”

Søren rolled onto his side away from her. He had eight bleeding claw marks on his back just under his shoulder blades.

“Fuck,” she said, then laughed. “Oops?”

Søren only laughed and rolled onto his wounded back again. She rested against his chest, listening to his wild heartbeat.

“Broke a man’s foot. Tore open my back. You are bloodthirsty, Eleanor. It’s no wonder you fell in love with me.”

She made a little “humph” sound and Søren said, “What was that?”

“Nothing. Just…you’re the second person tonight to tell me I’m violent.”

What Søren said then said everything. “Only the second?”