Page 44 of Claimed Through Deception

She reaches into the kit for the bandages, but my restraint snaps.

The adrenaline from the ambush peaks, crashing into the searing pain in my side and the suffocating lust in my veins. I do not want the bandages. I want her.

My hand shoots out.

I grab the back of her neck. My fingers tangle in the loose, silky strands of her dark hair.

Livia gasps, her eyes flying wide open.

I pull her up from the floor. She stumbles forward, crashing into the V of my legs. Her hands fly to my chest to steady herself. She is careful to avoid the fresh stitches, her palms pressing flat against my bare, uninjured skin.

"Niccolò," she whimpers. It is a warning. It is a plea.

I ignore it. I am reckless. I am bleeding and I am starving.

I drag her face down to mine. My mouth crashes against hers.

I devour her. I pry her lips apart with my tongue, tasting the lingering vanilla, the metallic tang of blood, the desperate, ragged breath she exhales into my mouth. I kiss her with every ounce of violence and desperation rotting inside me.

She doesn't push me away.

Her fingers curl into my bare shoulders. She whimpers against my mouth, a soft, helpless sound that shatters the last ounce of my sanity. She kisses me back, yielding to the brutal demand of my mouth.

I tilt her head back, deepening the kiss, drinking her in like a dying man finding water. I need her taste. I need her heat to burn away the cold reality of my world. I map the roof of her mouth, my thumb stroking the fragile line of her jaw.

She is mine. She stitched my flesh. Now she is going to piece together my soul.

I slide my other hand down to her waist, gripping the soft cotton of her shorts. I lift her, pulling her onto my lap. She straddles my thighs, her knees bracketing my hips. She is careful of my wounded side, her body hovering just inches above the laceration.

The new position presses her core directly against the hard, aching ridge of my erection.

Livia breaks the kiss. She throws her head back, gasping for air. Her chest heaves against mine.

"You're hurt," she gasps, her hands gripping my shoulders tightly. "Niccolò, you're bleeding."

"I don't care."

I chase her mouth, trailing hot, wet kisses down her jawline. I bite gently at the pulse point on her neck. She shivers violently, her hips rolling forward automatically. The friction draws a deep, guttural groan from my throat.

"Stop," she begs, though her body is doing the exact opposite. Her fingers dig into my skin. "You need to rest. You need bandages."

"I need you," I rasp against her collarbone.

I slide my hands under the hem of her white tank top. Her skin is impossibly hot. I map the curve of her spine, pulling her flush against my chest. The pain in my ribs is a dull background noise compared to the roaring inferno of my lust.

She cups my face in her small, bloodstained hands. She forces me to look at her.

Her dark eyes are dilated, swimming with the same feral need consuming me. But there is a fierce, protective stubbornness in her expression.

"You will tear the stitches," she says firmly.

"Let them tear."

"No." She shakes her head. "I didn't patch you up just to watch you bleed out on my bed."

I glare at her, my chest heaving. I want to argue. I want to flip her onto the mattress and bury myself inside her until the rest of the world fades to black. But the resolve in her eyes stops me.

She is protecting me from my own destructive nature.