Page 171 of Filthy Truth


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His growl lit me up from the inside out and I ate up his snarl as if it were a pint of Ben & Jerry’s finest. He tongue-fucked me. No kinder way to describe it, and I fought the flames of his need with my own.

When he ducked down and dragged me against him, I was very glad about my skirt, more so when he tore at the slit to make it higher. A move that enabled me to cup him with my legs.

As my heels dug into his ass, he maneuvered me to the side of the balcony and that was the first time I pulled back.

“No. Put my ass on the balcony railing.”

He frowned. “What?”

“Put my ass on the balcony railing,” I rasped.

I watched the cogs working behind his eyes and saw the sweetest glimmer of pain flicker to life as he came to terms with what I was asking and why.

Grateful that he didn’t say anything, just moved back so that my butt was against the cool metal, I sighed with relief when his mouth returned to mine.

We were back to soft and gentle—apologetic. I didn’t want that. I wanted him.

That fire was what I craved because it was only through that fire that I could be burned and reborn from the ashes.

I tugged on the deep V of my blouse, revealing the small brand that Indy had inked onto me.

The phoenix, formed in her iconic Mandala strokes with Conor’s name tangled amid those flowing lines, sat pride of place on the curve of my breast.

When he saw it, he dipped down and pressed his lips to it. As he tongued the outer edges, shaping its form, my head tipped back.

My hair was loose so I felt it flowing against my spine. It was an illusion but I felt like Rapunzel with a mile of hair dangling over the balcony, long enough to hit the floor.

I could feel gravity’s pull much as I had years ago, but this was different.

Death wasn’t calling me now. The urge to fall was gone.

Life was what beckoned me.

A future.

And I knew, point blank, that Conor would never, ever, ever let go of me.

I groaned when he nuzzled the neckline of my shirt away, nipping and sucking a path along tender skin until he reached my nipple.

When he nipped, hard enough to sting, my fingers knotted in his hair, my nails scoring his scalp.

For a couple moments, I reveled in his touch.

How he savored me sent liquid pleasure coursing through my veins, but then his hips rocked forward against my core and that was all I could think about.

His hands were a solid presence at my waist, and I knew they’d stay there so I helped by reaching between us.

To get a hold of him, I had to wriggle away, but he snatched me to him, jerking upright, his arms sliding around my back as he dragged me into his chest as if he thought I was going to jump.

“Jesus, Star!” he snapped, and because we were plastered to one another, I felt the heavy pounding of his heart.

Was it stupid to think it beat in time with mine?

“I was just reaching for your cock,” I said apologetically. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He blew out a breath as he held me close, so close, and amid the tight clutch of his arms, I angled my head so that I was kissing his throat this time, sipping and nipping and tasting and teasing.

Thanking him with loving kisses and explorative strokes.

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