Page 48 of Shattered In Darkness

She brings her hands to her chest. One crosses over her breast. She’s aware of the way I look at her. She always is.

I trace my thumb up her thigh, just a touch, nowhere dangerous. Yet.

“You nervous?” I murmur, not looking at the screen.

“No.”

Liar. I squeeze. She jumps. Her eyes flutter closed for a second. Her lips part but she doesn’t have words. Doesn’t matter. I lean in and bite her earlobe, just the barest graze of teeth. She gasps. A pretty, broken little noise.

“Lola,” I hiss. “You want me to stop?”

She shakes her head. Fuck, that’s good. That’s so good I want to bite her bones in half. I push her onto her back, slow, careful, so she doesn’t spook. She looks up at me, wide-eyed, open, trusting.

If she knew how much I want to destroy her, she’d never let me touch her. Maybe that’s why it’s so sweet. Delicate. I kiss her softly this time. Everything in me is violent and nasty, but my mouth is soft. I force it to be. For her. Tongue gentle, slow, patient.

Her fingers tangle in my hair. She drags me closer, hips arching up to grind against my thigh. We kiss forever. Her breath comes in little whimpers. I want to brand her. Make her incapable of leaving my bed, my side, my orbit.

The movie’s still playing, but nobody’s watching it.

She shifts, thighs brushing against me, and my skin goes fever-hot. I let my palm slide higher, just an inch, staring at the way her breath stutters and pulls. Pretty, trembling, almost scandalized. Like it’s a secret only we can touch.

“You like that, Bambi?” My voice tears up the space. She nods. She’s always honest with her body, even if her words come out sideways. I lean into her, lips against the shell of her ear. “Tell me what you want.”

There’s hesitation. She’s shy, but not unwilling. I can feel her heart pounding through her chest, wild as a hummingbird in my hands. I watch the blush rise up her throat, beautiful, impossible.

“I want you to kiss me,” she whispers. “The way you did before.”

She doesn’t have to beg. Not ever. Our kiss is filthy.

She opens for me, tongue tangling, desperate. All pride gone. My hands roam up her thigh, over her hip, squeezing, claiming. Flesh so fucking perfect. I could knead it for hours. Her hands tangle in my hair, scratching, yanking me closer, as if any distance will kill her. I slide my palm to her waist, up her side, fingers curling under the hem of her shirt.

She breaks the kiss, panting.

My voice shakes when I say it: “You want more, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Please?”

Fuck me. The sound of her begging is an overdose. I want to be good for her, careful, but my head is too full of wanting.

I slip my hand under her shirt; her skin is electric. I don’t go straight for her tits, not yet. I trace her ribs, memorize the lines of her, the way she arches into my hand. She makes this soft, breathy whimper when my calluses rake her side.

“So sensitive,” I murmur.

She bites her lip and looks up at me. Blue eyes. Like the sky during dusk. “Nobody ever touched me like that before. Not like this.”

Possessiveness slices through me. I grin. “Nobody ever will, except me.”

She laughs again, all nerves. “That supposed to sound romantic?”

I tug her shirt higher, barely exposing the swell of her stomach. She shudders. “Yeah,” I breathe. “You’re everything to me, Bambi. Thought you figured that out.”

I drag my thumb over her hipbone. She moans, helpless. I want to hear her do it again.

“Maybe I’m greedy,” she whispers. “Maybe I want more.”

God, her voice. A little hoarse. Nothing fake about it. The fire in her nearly sets my skin on fire.

I sit up. “You can have more,” I say. I can barely make words. “Whatever you want. It’s yours.”