Page 29 of Malice

“Are you sure?” His voice drops low, dangerous, making my stomach somersault.

My answer is to yank his mouth back to mine, kissing him with everything—fear, rage, the fucking triumph of surviving. He responds like a man who’s been bracing for impact and finally stops, a full-body surrender, shuddering as control slips through his fingers.

He backs me up till the couch catches me at the knees, and I crash back, dragging him down with me. His weight pins me in the best way, his hands everywhere—neck, sides, hips—leaving marks that scream mine.

I yank his shirt like a madwoman, needing skin-to-skin contact, and he pulls back just long enough to rip it off. Seeing him bare—muscles, ink—has my throat tightening. My fingers trace his abs, but he captures my wrist, pressing my palm against his chest.

“Feel that?” he growls. “That’s you.”

His heart pounds hard and fast, and a warmth I haven’t felt in years uncoils deep inside me. I slide my hands over his shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Show me,” I whisper, daring him.

The sound he makes is a raw, predatory sound that reverberates through both of us. His hand finds the hem of my shirt, slipping under to trace my stomach, and I arch into his touch, gasping as his fingers climb higher.

In the dim light, my shirt and pants hit the floor, and suddenly it’s just us, skin and heat. His hands move over me with a kind of focused patience, pausing where I tense, pressing where I don’t expect it, learning me by trial and response until my nails bite into his shoulders. It’s pure, raw want.

“Please,” I breathe, barely recognizing my own voice.

His mouth finds my neck, trailing down to my collarbone. “I’ve fucking dreamed about this,” he says, his voice vibrating against my skin.

His hands trembling as it slides up my thigh, a mix of hesitation and possessiveness. When his fingers skim my underwear, I gasp, arching closer.

“Tell me what you want,” he breathes against my ear, hot and demanding.

I reach between us, wrapping my hand around him through his jeans, feeling the hard, hot pulse of him. I stroke him, slow and deliberate. His sharp intake of breath sends a thrill racing through me, pooling heat low in my belly.

“I want you,” I say, my voice low and rough. “Every fucking piece of you.”

He lets out a guttural groan, crashing his mouth against mine, all wild heat and raw hunger. His hands are quick, tearing away at the barriers between us, and then he’s there, rock hard and blazing against me. I open my legs wider, practically begging for him, and he situates himself right where I need him, damn precise.

“Look at me,” he orders, and fuck if I don’t fall straight into those dark, impossible eyes. “I need to know you’re with me.”

“I’m here,” I promise, my hands clamping down on his shoulders like I might drown without him. “Right fucking here.”

He pushes in slowly, each inch stretching and burning in that perfect, almost painful way, and I bite back a moan that’s ready to break free. His face is all hard lines and restraint, veins visible like they’re about to burst on his forearms as he holds himself in check.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he whispers, pushing my hair back with a tenderness that undoes me. “So goddamn perfect.”

I shift my hips, taking him deeper, and it’s like his control snaps. He thrusts forward with a groan ripped from somewhere deep inside, and we’re moving, finding a rhythm that’s ancient and electric. His hands clamp onto my hips, pulling me into him, each thrust sending fireworks through every nerve in my spine.

Pleasure builds fast, coiling tight and low in my belly. I wrap my legs around his waist, dragging him closer, and he’s got one hand free now, fingers zeroing in on that bundle of nerves that makes me see stars. He’s filling me up completely while those fingers work their magic, driving me right to the edge.

“Carter,” I gasp, nails digging into his back hard enough to leave marks. “I’m so damn close.”

His pace kicks up, each movement deliberate and demanding. “Come for me,” he growls, voice rough and needy. “I want to feel you.”

The orgasm tears through me without warning, my vision blanking, breath locked somewhere in my chest, every muscle seizing tight around him. He’s pulled deeper by it, and he follows me over the edge with a shuddering groan, his release sending us both spiraling.

For long moments, we’re just there, tangled together, breathing hard, foreheads pressed, in shared heat. His weight is solid on top of me, grounding, and I trail my fingers down his slick back, feeling the thundering beat of his heart.

When he moves to pull away, I don’t let him. “Don’t,” I murmur. “Not yet.”

He stops, then rolls us over, pulling me with him so I’m draped across his chest. His arms wrap around me, tight, holding me close, his heartbeat slowing beneath my ear, a comforting rhythm.

“Trix,” he says eventually, his voice still wrecked. “Are you good?”

I lift my head, catching the softened lines of his face in the dim light, something warm cracking open in my chest at the sight. “More than good,” I say, tracing the ink etched into his skin with a fingertip. “That was…”