MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 23 - Twenty-Three: Unfinished Business

//CLARA//

The moment the door clicked locked, he had me against the bookshelf. My back hit the wood, his mouth found mine, and I swallowed his groan—or maybe he swallowed mine. I couldn’t tell anymore. It never failed to undo me.

His hands were everywhere. In my hair, on my waist, dragging up my thighs where my skirts had ridden high. I fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat, made an impatient sound, and he laughed against my mouth before pushing my hands aside and undoing them himself.

"Impatient," he murmured.

"You have no idea."

His waistcoat fell. His shirt followed. And then my palms were on his bare chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my touch, and I forgot how to breathe.

He made quick work of my dress in a not-so-gentlemanly manner. The laces gave way, the fabric loosened, and then my bodice hung open and I was bare to the waist, exposed to the golden light slanting through the windows and the dark hunger in his eyes.

He looked at me for a heartbeat like he was ready to go to hell as long as I was the one leading him there. Then his mouth crashed into mine. I choked on a gasp, my skull thudding against the mahogany bookshelf as he carved a path of fire down my throat.

When his mouth finally clamped over my breast, the suction was a violent, rhythmic pull that made my toes curl into the rug. His tongue swirled and lashed against the peak until I was a sobbing mess.

I felt the sharp scrape of his teeth against me before he sucked so hard I saw white behind my eyelids. My fingers twisted into his hair, clawing at his scalp just to stay upright while the scent of expensive bourbon and suppressed rage filled my senses. He was drinking me in like I was the only thing keeping him from flatlining, and I was more than willing to let him ruin me right there against the encyclopedias.

"Casimir—"

He lifted his head just long enough to meet my eyes. His were dark, dilated, barely controlled. "Tell me you want this."

"You know I do."

The mask didn’t just slip—it fucking shattered.

Casimir’s hands were bruising, catching my thighs and hoisting me up against the mahogany shelf. The books rattled, some falling to the floor, but I couldn’t hear a goddamn thing over the sound of his jagged breathing.

"Tell me," he growled, and the sound of it vibrating against my throat.

"I want you. Every filthy inch of you. Now."

He didn’t wait. His mouth found mine again. One hand stayed clamped over my breast, his palm crushing, while his thumb ground relentlessly against my bud until I was sobbing into his mouth. The other hand dove into the froth of my petticoats with a violent jerk.

He expertly hooked his fingers into the center seam of my drawers, not even fumbling with the silk and ripped. The sound of tearing fabric was the loudest thing in the room, and then the cool air hit my dripping, swollen heat.

I was a fucking mess. Drenched. Obscenely, a complete wreck, leaking through silk and lace. The friction of my own skin made a sound that felt like an invitation to a crime.

He shoved three fingers inside me without a single word of warning, a deep, intrusive stretch that made my lungs seize.

"God," I choked out, my head thumping back against the wood. "Casimir—"

"Look at me," he commanded, his eyes dilated with pure filth.

He started to move in a punishing rhythm that made my hips jerk uncontrollably against him. His thumb found my clit, mercilessly grinding in a circle that set every nerve ending on fire. He wasn’t just touching me. He was fucking me with his hand, learning exactly which angle made my vision blur and which pressure made my throat close up.

"More," I whimpered, my heels digging into his lower back, begging for the weight of him. "Please, Casimir... more."

He was still white-knuckling the illusion of my innocence. No cock, just the thick stretch of his fingers—filling me so deep I couldn’t tell where I ended and his possession began.

I bit down on his shoulder, the taste of his skin on my tongue, as he increased the tempo to a frantic, wet slap. His thumb was a relentless blur of friction against my clit, and his mouth returned to my bared breast, sucking with a carnal force that made me see white.

"Fly for me, little bird." The words were barely a whisper against my skin, but I felt them everywhere. "Fly apart. I’ll catch you. Let me have all of you. Every piece. Every sound. Every last bit of this beautiful ruin."

His fingers hooked deep, hitting that sensitive, hidden ridge with a rhythmic, heavy pulse. His thumb hit the peak of my clit with one final, crushing flick, and I shattered.

The orgasm crashed through me like a tsunami, a jagged explosion of pleasure that turned my bones to liquid. I sobbed his name into the crook of his neck, my internal muscles clenching and pulsing rhythmically around his fingers, milking him for every last drop of sensation. Wave after wave of heat wrung the air from my lungs until I was nothing but a vibrating chord of desire.

He didn’t stop. He kept his fingers buried inside me, drawing out every last shuddering tremor, his thumb maintaining a low, vibrating pressure until I was breathless and completely undone.

When the world finally stopped spinning, I was slumped against him, my forehead pressed to his. I could feel him through his trousers—thick, rigid, and pulsing with a desperate, agonizing need of his own. He was leaking through the fabric.

He withdrew his hand, his fingers glistening and wet in the golden light. He looked at them, then slowly, possessively, licked his own fingers clean while holding my gaze.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

We froze.

"Casimir?" An urgent voice sliced through the heavy oak door like a literal guillotine. "I need to speak with you. Immediately."

The panic hit me like a cold bucket of reality. One second I was floating somewhere in the stratosphere, a glittering, dopamine-soaked cloud-nine, courtesy of his fingers, and the next I was being yanked back to earth by the single most joy-killing voice in existence.

Aunt Cornelia.

Of course. Of-fucking-course.

I scrambled to find my feet, my dress hanging open, my body still humming with unfinished business. Casimir was already moving. I watched him recalibrate in a heartbeat—shifting from the predator who had just devoured me to the untouchable guardian. He adjusted his clothes like he’d been caught embezzling rather than doing very illegal things to his ward.

"The curtains," he hissed. "Now."

I didn’t argue. I dived behind the heavy velvet drapes, pressing my half-naked self against the corner just as the door handle turned.