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His grip tightens and my vision flashes. Into my mind rushes a torrent of images from the night we met. His eyes burning into me as I confessed that I was frightened of Clint.
“Is your husband a mad dog?” he’d asked.
The cliffs—they’re haunted by something. The mountain pass is stained in blood, and I wonder if seven months ago, that blood also stained the hand around my neck. His fingers tighten and my head spins.
“If you’re going to accuse me, be a big girl and do it to my face,” he says.
“Did you kill my husband?” I whisper.
He withdraws abruptly and I sink back, gasping. His chest, covered in that black and white bull skull, heaves. God, I can’t get away from those sightless eyes. Sweat breaks out on his neck and trickles down between his pecs. Catching in the hair.
“You and I, redbird, our interests aligned,” he says.
“Don’t.” I’m raising my voice and I don’t mean to, but I can’t stop. “Don’t talk in riddles. Give me a fucking straight answer. Sir.”
He comes back to the counter and his palms slide up my waist. Touching me so gently I want to crumble. He’s cradling me and it’s a stark contrast to the anger pounding through his eyes. He wants to break something, but he’s touching me like I’m made of glass.
“I saw you,” he says, his voice low and husky. “I wanted you. And now you’re mine.”
My stomach goes cold. This time, I understand what he’s saying without him spelling it out. He saw me, he wanted me, so he killed Clint to make me his. My stomach turns. This is the dark undercurrent I feel when it’s just us. I felt it on the pool table, his gun against my pussy. And I feel it now.
My lips part. My mouth is so dry.
“I don’t like your riddles,” I whisper. “But this time…I know the answer.”
He bends in and kisses the side of my neck. My nipples go hard and my hips tighten, my lower spine arcing towards his body. His hot mouth trails down to my shoulder and he bites it gently. I gasp, letting my head fall back.
The ceiling spins. How can I still want him?
“I will never let you go, redbird,” he says.
His words are soft, like a declaration of love, but chilling like the cold wind through the pines.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
GERARD
I lift her in my arms and she doesn’t struggle. We sink to the kitchen floor and her hair pools around her head. My hand goes down to the tie of my sweatpants and she shakes her head. Her wet lashes flutter.
“Don’t,” she whispers.
I slide my hand up her inner thigh and my fingers meet warm slickness. Coating her sex and upper thighs. When I part her with my finger and thumb, I can see how flushed and ready to be fucked she is. Her lower back arcs and I graze my touch over her clit. Her mouth parts and she whimpers.
“Please,” she begs.
My cock is so hard it aches. Every move I make, I feel the fabric of my sweatpants rub against it. Threatening to set me off before I can get inside her pussy. I push the waistband down and unleash my length, sinking down until our hips meet. Our mouths are inches apart.
“Sovereign. Don’t.” Her eyes are wide.
If she were locked up, I’d get off her. But she’s drenched and her hips ride up, rubbing her wet cunt along the underside of mycock. From the base all the way to the tip, pelvis tilting like she’s trying to get me inside.
“Are you ashamed to be fucked by the man who killed your husband?” I breathe.
Her eyes roll back and her hips stutter. Maybe she hasn’t put the feeling into words yet.
“This changes nothing,” I tell her. “You’ve already come on my cock, my face, my hands.”
“I didn’t know,” she whimpers.
