Page 8 of Falling for the Enemy

He wrapped one arm around her, pulling her back against his chest, changing the angle until the shudder that ran through her entire body passed into him like a current. His mouth found her neck again, teeth grazing the tendon that strained beneath her skin. She reached back, gripped his hair, and pulled with the kind of violence that blurred the line between holding him closer and tearing him apart.

“Your pussy’s choking me.” His voice buried itself in the damp curve of her throat.

“Good.” She clenched around him so tight his vision whited at the edges. “Now, stop talking and make me come.”

His body took over with single-minded brutality. One hand slid up her chest and closed around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, as every sound she couldn’t suppress vibrated against his palm.

Her pulse hammered beneath his fingers, wild and unguarded. That tiny vulnerability proved that, beneath the armor, the attitude, the bratty, sexy mouth, Jocelyn Collins was just as destroyed by their chemistry as he was.

She cried out, shamelessly claiming her pleasure in a way that sent him hurtling toward the edge faster than pride could pull him back.

He made sure she always came first, because he would sooner choke on his own ego than let her have that ammunition. Her orgasm tore through her with a full-body convulsion that locked her spine against his chest, as her voice pitched, unfiltered and greedy, nothing like the theatrical moans he heard from partners in the past.

One final thrust, and his release ripped into her with enough force to buckle his knees. Hips jerking, he made sure she received every drop. Something about finishing deep inside of her always felt like victory, even if it never amounted to anything.

His forehead dropped to her shoulder as a shiver raced up his spine. Hand loosening on her throat, his touch slid down to her collarbone, where her rapid heartbeat pounded against his palm. His hips stuttered through the last aftershocks, and slowly, the hallway stopped spinning.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Their breathing synced without permission, chests expanding and contracting in tandem as the sweat cooled between their bodies.

Soren’s lips rested against Jocelyn’s shoulder, her heartbeat decelerating under his palm. The intimacy of it was worse than the addiction itself.

The sex he could explain away. But the part where he didn’t pull out immediately, where he stood with his face pressed into her hair, breathing in that familiar scent of incense and ink and taking some sick, twisted sense of comfort from an act that should feel like poison… Yeah, he wasn’t supposed to enjoy that.

His thumb traced absent circles on her damp skin, intimate as a secret, and she moved, breaking contact and forcing his cock to slide free. The warm house felt cold outside of her comforting heat, but he said nothing.

She bent to retrieve the kimono from the floor. “There’s a fresh bottle of bourbon on the bar.”

He tucked his cock away. “I know where it is.”

“Then stop standing in my hallway like a lost retriever and pour me one.” Still naked, she disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door.

He bathed in the strange awareness like a specimen under observation, awkward and exposed despite now standing alone. The lock inside the bathroom clicked with casual finality.

Glancing at the kitchen, he debated whether he wanted a drink. He should go. It was late, and where he and Jocelyn were concerned, alcohol only further complicated things.

She didn’t expect him to stay any more than he expected an invitation. If he lingered, she would only blame him for disrupting her deadline.

The silence pushed him into motion. He tightened his belt and pulled up his zipper. Time to go.

Hesitating, he glanced at the kitchen one last time. Copper pots hung over the marble slab island. They could have a drink before calling it a night. It wasn’t like they didn’t hang out when his brothers and Wren were around. But that’s not what this was. None of them knew he was here—alone. With Jocelyn’s come on his cock.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

He knew where the glasses were kept and how to work the ice maker. He even knew where she hid the cherries he liked—the ones she despised. The ones she shouldn’t own. The ones she bought just for him. The ones they never discussed, because why would she do that?

His gaze returned to the bathroom door. Was she even peeing in there? Or was she hiding and waiting for him to leave?

“Joce?”

“What?” she snapped with fraying patience.

“You working tonight?”

“I’m always working.”

His stare drifted to the stack of books that had fallen to the floor. He lifted them and set them back on the hall table. A shirtless Viking posed on the top cover, gripping a woman in a torn bodice.

No sound came from the bathroom. A decent man would ask if she was okay or wait to kiss her goodbye, but that wasn’t what Jocelyn wanted. They didn’t do intimacy, and they both preferred it that way.