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“Does that pain you to hear?” I leer closer. “Trust me, he didn’t die well, either. It was slow, and painful, and?—”
“Is that the God’s honest truth?”
Her voice is papery and thin, her pulse thudding in the soft hollow of her neck.
“Yes,” I growl. “It is.”
“Thengood.”
When a dam bursts, it’s not all of a sudden. At least, the build-up isn’t. First there are small tremors. Then there are warnings, like the foundations cracking, or the mechanics stopping. And then, right before it gives way, it’s as if the Earth itself knows it’s about to unleash hell upon its surface. The birds and animals leave. The air goes still.
Then—only then—does the wall holding back the water give way, with an explosion of violence and urgency.
That’s what this is—this thing between Tempest and I.
There were tremors weeks ago. The foundations cracked two nights ago. And there hasn’t been a bird in the sky ever since.
And in this exact moment, locked eye-to-eye with each other, our blood roaring hot, our breaths coming hard, and our bodies slammed together with the scent of my blood and her fury swirling in the air, it’s like the final calm before it all gives way.
My eyes drop to her lips, and for the first time, I realize she’s bleeding a little, from where I bit her at the altar.
It’s that little drop of blood on the lips of the woman I married about three and a half minutes ago that's the final straw.
The last stroke.
The release.
When I grab her face and slam my mouth to hers, tasting her moans, her blood, and her pain, it’s like the whole fucking dam gives way.
And God help whoever’s downstream.
15
TEMPEST
There’sa chance I might be crazy. Like, legit psycho. Because five minutes ago, I literally tried to stab this man at the altar. And now I’m moaning sinfully into his lips as he pins me to the bookshelf and kisses the ever-living fuck out of me.
Which part of that scenario makes memorepsycho? I don’t know.
All I know is, it feels like I’m coming alive when his lips crush to mine.
I whimper as his teeth sink into my lip again. I can feel him suck, tasting my blood as I cling to him and mash my lips to his. His hands slide over my hips, pinning me against the shelves, then slide up my ribs and forcibly grab my wrists before shoving them high above my head.
This should be hitting every single trigger in the world for me. This should be pushing me back into that black hole in my head from seven years ago.
Instead, Dante’s touch makes meache. It makes me crave more of him.
…and it makes me very, very wet.
Deep down, I know that’s screwed up: that after what I’ve experienced, it’s precisely the roughness in his touch and the forceful way he’s capturing me and caging me against the wall that has me melting for him and aching for more moremore.
That has me dripping wet.
But I just don’t care.
Dante keeps my wrists pinned above my head with one hand. He uses the other one to capture my jaw as his tongue dances with mine. The possessiveness of the touch makes my knees weak as I eagerly suck his tongue deeper into my mouth.
His hand drops to the laced bodice of my wedding gown, yanking the ties loose and pulling it open. Heat pools between my thighs and my breasts spill free, and when his strong hand cups one of them, I shiver against him.
