Page 92 of Unholy Masks

“That’s better,” I murmured, my lips brushing the curve of her ear. “I like you like this, Red. Submissive for once. Now be a good girl, and go to bed.”

“Only in here,” she moaned.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I whispered, grazing my teeth over the tip of her ear. “You know I love submitting to you—inside and outside our bedroom.”

She laughed, delighted, her red hair spilling like a breath of fire. God, that sound. That sight. It was all I ever needed.

I wanted to look at her and feel that pressure in my chest forever, that achingly soft contention. I wanted to breathe the same air she breathed and be stupidly, shamelessly grateful that the world was a better place because she was in it.

God. I wanted all of it.

“What?” she breathed, the playfulness completely gone.

“Nothing.”

“When you look at me like that, I want to break my own rules,” she breathed, slowly moving toward the bed. “But the rules are there for a reason.”

“I know.”

“And without them, I’ll flounder. I can’t.” Her voice tightened. “Half my life, I had to stumble and stagger. The world is such a cruel place for us. I never regretted what I did, but I would have taken a normal family. I would have taken something boring, something ordinary.”

“I know.”

“So don’t hate me, Ryden.” Her voice was soft as a prayer.

“I could never. I promise I’ll take whatever you give me. That’s more than enough for me.”

The mask of sadness melted away to give way to the spark that had always burned in me.

She raised her hands over her head.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked, brows arched.

“To make sure you’re alright.”

“I am. You—you are everything beautiful in an extremely ugly world, Ryden Sinclair. You make everything better.”

I chuckled. “Careful, Little Killer. You’ll make me think I somehow deserve you.”

“You do,” she said. “You deserve all of me.” With that said, she moved, her body gracefully sliding down the mattress.

My heart pounded as she gave me a look… a look that was enough to break my heart and soul. Being with Yara West was like dancing on the edge—always exciting, exhilarating. And of course, scary.

I moved with her, taking her lips between my teeth. She groaned.

Her thighs pressed together when I traced slow circles to the inside of her knee. She arched into me, begging for more.

“You’re already squirming.” I chuckled, dragging my teeth over her pulse. “And I haven’t even started.”

She let out a frustrated little sound. “Ryden…”

“Patience, Little Killer,” I whispered, kissing her lips. “I’ll take my time. I’ll be the one to decide when I want to give you what you so desperately need.”

Her breathing turned ragged as I rolled back, putting just enough space between us.

She let out a whimper. Small, almost desperate, beautifully angry.

I shook my head. She stopped pouting.