She asked me to burn with her and I’m going to do just that. Nothing held back. No desire left untended. Either we survive this together or not at all.
I twist around, reaching for the hem of my shirt to pull it over my head. The material lands on the floor, abandoned. Forgotten. I’m already rounding the sofa, my gaze latching onto Isla’s, as though we’ve always been fated to land here in this crossroads together.
The devil in disguise.
A fallen angel with broken wings.
The two of us—ruined, untamed, and desperate to feel alive.
I sit on the sofa, spread my legs wide, and cut my gaze to hers. “Come here.”
She doesn’t need to be told twice. With an elegant sweep of her feet onto the carpet, she approaches. Her fingers dance along the collar of her shirt, contemplation furrowing her brows as she visually traces my naked chest for the first time. The raised scars she felt beneath her fingers. The tattoo over my left shoulder: inked swirls of blue and green, abstract in perception—a maze of my own life, with no way to escape. Stuck. Cornered. Saxon Godwin never made his way out.
Licking her lips, as though she’s desperate for a taste, Isla drops to her knees before me at the same time that she draws the shirt over her head and throws it aside, exposing small breasts and dusky-rose nipples that beg to be worshipped.
Perfection. Fucking perfection.
Her hands land on my thighs.
“No,” I grunt, gripping her upper arm, “not there.”
Head jerking up, her mouth parts. “No? I thought—”
“I made you a promise.” Still holding her, I pull her off the floor. Frame her hips with my hands and turn her around, so that her ass is all I see. And that fading handprint. Christ, knowing that I’ve marked her—however temporarily—calls to something inside me that I’ve never allowed to crest the surface.
Possession.
Hope.
Right now, Isla Quinn belongs only to me. Mine to pleasure, mine to take, and mine to ruin.
Manhunt be damned. Holyrood be damned. The queen be fucking damned.
Keeping my legs spread, I drag her onto my lap. A small gasp flies from her mouth when her rear collides with my rock-hard erection, but I don’t let her get comfortable. Sweeping my hands down the length of her smooth legs, I tug them sharply outward, so that she’s forced to loop them over the backs of mine.
She’s splayed wide, vulnerable.
Just the way I want her.
“Saxon?” comes her hesitant whisper.
“Fulfilling my promise,” I return, just as softly, while circling her wrists with my fingers and tugging her arms backward. I crisscross her wrists behind her, at the base of her spine. I can only imagine the visual that she must paint—breasts thrust out, lean body arching, her clit throbbing while her legs tremble atop mine. I keep one hand fisted around her wrists, restraining her, while brushing the other along the outer swell of her breast. “To own every one of your cries. To steal the taste of you right off your cunt. To make you remember who it is that does this to you.”
My fingers make direct contact with her peaked nipple, pinching the sensitive nub, and she moans, low and throaty. Squirming in my lap, she yanks at my ironclad hold. I drop my mouth to her shoulder blade. “You can’t run, Isla. Not until I’m done with you.”
Her answering whimper emboldens me.
This is the first time a woman has ever begged for my touch and I’ll be damned if I rush the moment. No. I plan to sample every bit of her, to memorize what makes her grind her hips, seeking my cock. What makes her scream and come back for more. And then, masochist that I am, I’ll do it all over again.
She’s made an addict out of me.
Flicking her nipple one last time, I flatten my hand and skim the length of her stomach. I follow the shallow grooves of her abdominal muscles then the curved flare of her waist. Her desperate gasp is my only soundtrack when I bypass her pussy and trail my fingers down the inner slope of her thigh instead.
I smirk against her back when she releases a frustrated groan, her muscles flexing within my grasp.
“Isn’t this what you craved?” I murmur, tracing my fingers up, up, up, so close to where we both want them, before veering south all over again. “You like the push, the pull—the fear of the unexpected that comes with the pleasure.”
“I-I—”
“Cat got your tongue?” I brush my mouth over her skin, the center of her spine. “Maybe I should help with that.”
Before she can speak, I move my hand from her thigh and slap her—there, between her thighs, right over her clit.
She screams my name.
I feel her entire body shudder, even her toes that are hooked around my calves. She shudders and I burn alive and I will never—never—forget this moment for as long as I live. Isla Quinn, warrior that she is, crying out my name. I cup her core, easing the burn. Already on my fingers I can feel how wet she is.
Wet and wanting and waiting to be fucked.
I dip my fingers through her wetness, capturing the essence of her, before grazing my fingertips up over her belly button, up over one hard nipple, up to her soft, plump lips. “Taste yourself.”
She obeys immediately. The tip of her tongue flicks out against my fingers, a gentle caress at first. But then she seems to realize that there’s no judgment here, not between us, and she wraps her lips around me and sucks them deep. One knuckle, two. Like it isn’t my fingers she’s tasting but my cock.
A groan reverberates through my chest, unchecked. “Christ.”
She grinds down, her ass circling over my crotch. Lips still staking their claim on my fingers, licking them clean. Giving as good as she’s getting.
I’d expect nothing else from this woman.
Pulling myself free of her mouth, I don’t wait for what I know will be a sarcastic remark before rendering her speechless all over again. My wet fingers go to her clit, applying pressure, then dance away when she grows stiff in my arms and tries to wrestle back control. Because I’m a starved man with no qualms about stealing what I need to survive, I plunge two fingers deep inside her.
“Saxon,” she whimpers, “oh, God. I can’t. It’s too much.”
“Wrong.” I regrip her wrists, keeping her captive. “It’s not enough. It won’t ever be enough, not with us.” Tension lines my body, winding me so tight that I might splinter. “Tell me what you see,” I growl into her back, my voice thick, “and leave nothing out.”
“Please, I need to—”
“Tell me, Isla.” I curl my fingers within her. Press my thumb down on her clit. “And I’ll consider putting you out of your misery.”
A cry wrestles with a frustrated hiss. She struggles in my embrace, seeking more, her hips churning. I let her have her moment. For a second. And then I’m pulling away, flipping her over until she’s flat on her back, her ass lined up with the edge of the sofa, and I’m the one on my knees.
I spread her legs wide, forcing her to hold her knees against her chest.
A breath away, she’s soaked. Dripping. It’s a view I’ve never been privy to before, but one I have no doubt that I’ll enjoy.
I lift my hungry gaze to hers. “Uphold your end of the bargain.”
It’s all I say before I palm her inner thigh, bow my head, and feast.