Page 46 of Malice
Before I can finish, she’s on me, pulling me down with fists tangled in my shirt. There’s nothing gentle in it. Her mouth is hot and demanding, and I let out a noise that’s halfway pathetic if my brain wasn’t melting down to mush. My hands find her waist, her hips, that perfect curve under her sweater, and she presses against me like she’s been waiting years too.
“Yes,” she breathes against my lips. “Yes, you idiot. Ask me something easy next time.”
I haul her off the ground, her legs wrapping around me like they belong there. Her mouth is relentless, tasting of wine and something indescribably her, undeniably Trixie. I’ve been denied for so long I forgot what satisfaction even feels like.
“Bedroom,” she murmurs against my jaw, each word searing. “Not the reading chair. That chair’s sacred now.”
I laugh. Actually laugh, with her wrapped around me and my heart running so fast I can feel it in my throat. “Yes, ma’am.”
I carry her down the hall to my room. Our room now, I guess, and that thought hits me harder than any fist ever has. I kick the door shut behind us because old habits, because some part of me is always securing the perimeter, and she notices. She notices everything.
“Nobody’s here but us,” she says softly.
“I know.”
“Then stop guarding the door and come guard me instead.”
Fucking hell. She actually did it.
I drop her onto the bed, and she drags me down with her, stubborn fingers fisted in my shirt. I pause there, hovering over her. Her curls are everywhere on my pillow, cheeks all flushed. Those eyes, though, warm and knowing, see past the fighter, past all the shit I’ve done, to something I stopped believing was there. Don’t know why she thinks so, but I’ll beg, borrow, and steal to keep it.
“You’re doing the jaw thing again,” she whispers.
“Because I’m scared,” I admit, the words scraping out, raw as rusted metal. “Scared of hurting you. Of moving too fast. Scared you’ll wake up and realize you’re with a guy who breaks bones for a living.”
Her hands still on my chest. “Carter—”
“Whatever pace you want, Trix, I’m here. I’d wait another three years if you needed it. Just tell me.”
She holds my gaze, then tugs off her sweater like a declaration of war.
No more talking. I kiss her like I’m desperate, because I am. I tear my shirt off and she unhooks her bra, and then her skin is on mine, soft where I’m scarred. Her nails rake down my spine, marking her claim. Fucking perfect. I want everyone to see those scratches and know.
My lips trail down her throat, across her collarbone, to the curve of her breast. When I take her nipple into my mouth, she lets out this broken sound, arching into me like she’s asking permission. I savor every second, ticking off a list of dreams I’ve had for too damn long.
“Carter.” Her grip tightens in my hair. “Carter, please.”
“I’ve imagined you begging.” I peel her jeans down, kissing every inch from her knee up. “Real thing’s way better.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You said yes to living with me. Your problem now.”
Then I’m all over her, her smart mouth going silent, replaced by gasps and moans. She’s soaked, thrumming, and she says my name like a benediction, a curse, all tangled up. I hold her down when she tries to squirm away from the intensity of it, feeling relentless, because I’ve got years to make up for. The way she comes apart, thighs tight around my head, is the best fucking thing I’ve heard in my life.
I kiss back up to her, and she’s already fumbling at my belt, impatient as hell.
“Now,” she demands. “Right fucking now.”
“Bossy.”
“You love it.”
“Yeah.” I shuck the rest of my clothes and settle between her thighs, locking eyes.
She pants, her hands fisting in my hair. “Move, Carter. God, please move.”
I start slow, savoring the way she claws at my shoulders, her sweet voice turned dirty with expletives. Then I pick up the pace, meeting her demands, her hips snapping up to meet mine. The bed’s slamming into the wall, and neither of us gives a damn. She comes again, and I’m right behind her, buried deep, lost and found all at once.
