Page 107 of Hades

Then he kissed me.

Not gentle. Not tentative. He kissed me like he was claiming something that already belonged to him. His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting, taking. His hands slid from my face to my hair, fisting in the strands and angling my head exactly where he wanted it.

I moaned into his mouth. My hands came up to grip his cut. The leather was warm and worn under my fingers. I could smell motor oil and cigarettes and something that was just him.

Before I could process what was happening, his hands gripped my waist and he lifted me. Not toward the hallway. Not toward my bedroom.

He turned and set me on the kitchen table.

The wood was cool against my ass through my skirt. Solid. Unforgiving. My heart hammered against my ribs as he stepped between my thighs, spreading them wide to accommodate his hips.

“What are you doing?” I breathed.

His eyes were dark. Predatory. That smile curved his lips again. The one that promised violence and pleasure in equal measure.

“Having dessert.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Lettie

His mouth was on mine again, devouring me, consuming me entirely. His tongue swept past my lips, tasting me, claiming me, exploring every inch like he was mapping territory he intended to conquer and keep. His hands went to the hem of my shirt, and he pulled it over my head in one smooth, practiced motion. Tossed it somewhere behind him. I didn’t care where. Didn’t care about anything except the feel of his hands on my body.

The air hit my skin, cool compared to the heat radiating off him in waves. I could feel the warmth of him even in the spaces where we weren’t touching. I reached for his cut, pushing it off his broad shoulders. He shrugged out of it and dropped it on the back of a chair. I grabbed his shirt and pulled it up, desperate to feel his skin against mine. He helped me, lifting his arms so I could strip it off him. The fabric caught briefly on his biceps before sliding free.

His chest was a roadmap of scars and ink. Muscle and violence and masculine beauty all intertwined. Each mark told a story. Each tattoo held meaning. I traced one scar with my fingertip. A long, raised line that ran from his collarbone to his ribs. The skin was slightly puckered, paler than the rest of him.

“Knife fight,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. “Three years ago. Guy came at me outside a bar in Reno.”

I leaned forward and pressed my lips to it. Kissed the evidence of his survival. Kissed the proof that he was still here, still breathing, still mine. His hands tangled in my hair, and he held me there. His fingers tightened, not quite painful but possessive. Claiming.

“Lettie.”

My name on his lips sounded like a prayer and a curse, like a benediction and blasphemy wrapped into one word.

His hands moved to the hem of my skirt, lifting it over my hips with deliberate slowness. I shifted, letting him work my panties down my legs. He stripped them off in one smooth motion, then tossed them aside. They landed somewhere near his discarded shirt. The cool kitchen air hit the apex of my thighs, making me shiver, making me acutely aware of how exposed I was.

I sat on my kitchen table in just my bra, my skirt pushed up around my waist. Exposed. Vulnerable. The wood grain pressed into my skin, letting me feel every ridge, every imperfection in the surface beneath me. The table where I’d eaten countless meals alone, where I’d paid bills and read books and pretended my life was exactly what I wanted it to be.

He stepped back just far enough to look at me. His eyes raked over my body like he was memorizing every inch. Every curve. Every flaw. Every imperfection I’d spent years trying to hide. But under his gaze, I didn’t feel the need to cover myself. Didn’t feel shame. Just want. Just need.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re so goddamn beautiful it hurts to look at you.”

The words struck somewhere deep inside me, leaving me breathless. No one had ever said that to me. Not like that. Not like they meant it down to their bones.

Then he dropped to his knees.

This dangerous, violent man was kneeling on my kitchen floor like I was something sacred. Like I was a deity worth worshipping. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading them wider, positioning me exactly where he wanted me. His palms were rough and calloused against my soft skin.

“Lean back,” he ordered. Not a request. A command.

I did. Braced my hands on the table behind me. The position arched my back, pushed my hips forward, opened me completely to his gaze. The vulnerability should have terrified me. Instead, it thrilled me. Made heat pool low in my belly.

He pressed a kiss to my inner thigh. Then another. Working his way up slowly. Torturously. Taking his time like we had all night. Like my mother wasn’t asleep down the hall. Like the rest of the world didn’t exist. His stubble scraped against my sensitive skin, the contrast of rough and soft making me shiver. Making goosebumps rise on my arms.

When his mouth finally found me, I cried out louder than I intended. My back arched. My head fell back. His tongue was hot and wet and perfect. He licked through my folds with slow, deliberate strokes. Circled my clit with the tip of his tongue. Sucked it between his lips with just the right amount of pressure.

“Fuck,” I gasped. “Brock. Oh God.”