Steadily, I meet his gaze. “Steal a kiss from me.”
He stares at my mouth. Looks at it as if he can picture the kiss now—my lips pliant beneath his, absorbing every thrust of his tongue, every nip of his teeth. Saxon’s kiss would be just as savage as the man himself. Give it to me, please, I want to beg. But then the moment is gone, utterly obliterated, as he whips me around so that I’m facing the wall. I reach out to the brick to steady myself, only for his palm to land on my spine and lower me, then lower me even more.
The horizontal position exposes me completely. Legs spread wide, I feel the chill in the air along my wet folds, then hear the telltale sound of a foiled wrapper ripping open.
Oh, God, this is happening. Really happening.
Me, Saxon Priest, sex.
Sex in an old mobile shop. Sex on the run from the police. Sex with the man who would despise me if he learned that I’m the one who killed the king, then allowed the blame to sit on his shoulders.
The head of Saxon’s thick cock grazes my core, and my pulse leaps with anticipation. “Last chance to walk away.”
There’s no walking away, not when I’m already feeling the stirrings of a new addiction. “Ruin me—take me—”
He does, on a single, hard stroke that has my fingers raking the wall and my head falling forward with a startled cry. My palm screams in pain from the knife wound and my core aches from stretching for a man like Saxon Priest and my heart . . . my heart flourishes.
Calloused fingers stake their claim down my spine before framing my hips in a bruising grip. He holds me like I might run away at any second. He slams into me, over and over again, with the ferocity of a man who’s been starved of the sun for years and has only just stepped under its warmth again.
I’m unraveling.
Desire floods my system and I moan, turning my head to bite down on my arm.
“No,” Saxon grunts harshly, his fingers sinking into my hair and dragging my head back, “let me hear you.”
I can’t deny him.
Another cry falls from my mouth as his fingers tangle with my hair, keeping my spine arched and my head thrown back.
Cold. Callous. But so damn good.
This—this is what I was missing with Stephen. No matter what suggestions I gave to my ex, he never delivered. Or maybe I’m looking at it all wrong. Maybe it’s less that he didn’t deliver and more that my body simply was unwilling to respond, as though it’s always known that someone better, someone more life-altering, waited just around the corner.
Someone like Saxon.
He fucks me as I predicted—with tightly leashed control that demands my body and soul obey him—but with an edge that I never could have anticipated. He churns his hips, moving into me faster, deeper, dredging up sensations I’ve never felt in my entire life. He folds himself over my back, the dampness from his shirt passing a chill through to my body, before tucking his hand around my waist so that he can reach down and flick my clit in time with his strokes.
My heart rate hammers in my temple, tunneling my vision, until all there is, is us, this moment, the fact that I’ve let Saxon Priest inside me, and I never want him to leave.
“Harder,” I whisper, panting, “I want everything.”
He pinches my clit, ripping a cry from my throat. “Begging already, Miss Quinn?”
“Yes. Yes”—the flat of his finger circles me, then retreats, dancing over my clit in barely-there caresses that drive me wild and turn my cries into strangled moans—“Saxon. Saxon, oh my God, I’m going to come. Please. Don’t stop. Please.”
Thrusting harder, he dips his finger along my folds, gathering more of my wetness, before returning to my clit. He rubs, applying more delicious pressure, and my knees threaten to give out beneath me. Another second of this . . . I can’t. I’m going to crumble where I stand. I’m going to burst apart at the seams. He fucks me and I . . . I plead, shamelessly, for more of his cock, for more of the rippling heat sweeping over me like I’ve been thrown in a furnace and left to burn alive.
His mouth grazes the space between my shoulder blades. “Tell me what you are, Isla.”
Right now? He wants to have this talk right now? I’m on the verge of the most epic orgasm of my life and he wants to argue, and I want to come, and hell, knowing him, he’ll probably be the sadistic arsehole that he is and stop if I don’t answer quickly enough.
I hate that I know him as well as that.
Reaching down, I graze my hand over his to ensure he keeps stroking me. I feel his dark chuckle against my back, before I answer: “Ruthless. Broken.” A small pause that tugs at my conscience. “A killer.”
And then he bites my shoulder—I bite back, he’d promised—and growls only three words: “No, a warrior.”
My lungs squeeze and my clit throbs and his next thrust hits the exact spot that I need to instantly shatter. I come, shouting his name and squeezing so tightly around his length that he orgasms a beat later.
He’s silent when he comes.
No groaning. No frantic words slipping off his tongue.
But I feel his shattered breathing against the nape of my neck, rustling my hair, and I feel his cock pulse inside me, and for Saxon Priest, a man who allegedly has no heart, I know he’s given me something today that no other person has ever had from him—a fractured piece of his soul, battered and bruised, but a piece that’s no less beautiful had it been shiny and new.
22
Saxon
“Ring me when you get to her flat,” I say into the receiver, my gaze trained on the woman staring out the window, her fingers listlessly braiding the heavy strands of her hair. “As soon as night falls, I’ll bring Isla.”
On the other end of the line, Guy curses. “Christ, Saxon. This is a problem.”
I hear everything that he isn’t saying: Isla Quinn is the problem.
It’s not anything I haven’t thought myself since fucking her an hour ago, despite the fact that we both vowed that this would never happen.
As if sensing my stare, she turns ever so slightly, glancing over at me with big blue eyes and a small, worried smile playing at her lips. Fuck. I wish she’d fly at me, arms raised to beat me down for taking advantage of her. I took her like an animal, up against the wall, still fully clothed while she’d been completely bare. Her anger I could handle, even the inevitable disgust at having let me touch her, but that hesitant quirk of her lips is like crossing the River Styx, knowing that paradise will always be forever out of reach.
I’ll remember the shape of her lips for the rest of my life. A sharp Cupid’s bow up top, a plump lower lip that trembles when she’s on the verge of orgasm.
The first pair to ever wrap around my cock and suck me deep into a warm, wet mouth.
The first pair to ever ask me to steal a kiss.
A kiss that you couldn’t deliver.
“I know,” I mutter to Guy, threading my fingers through my hair and nearly ripping out the strands. Gripping the mobile, I twist away, seeking a reprieve from the lust hammering my body and demanding that I strip Isla naked all over again. “Don’t you think that I know that?”
“Right now, I’m not sure that you know anything.”