Page 14 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
“Let’s go,” he says, and there's this edge to his words that makes me wonder what he really wants to say. If Grainger's holding back, there's only one explanation. Either club business … or Cat. I don't think the man's afraid of anything else—or if afraid is even the right word. “This place is fucking creepy.”
He turns to walk away and I stand up. Too quick, too sharp.
Grainger turns back around and looks at me. Stares. Narrows his eyes.
His breath huffs out in a rush.
“You've been avoiding me for two years,” I say, standing my ground when he takes a step closer, that biting, blazing scent of his wafting around me, drawing me in. Why am I just standing here? Being around Grainger is dangerous. “It goes both ways.”
“Does it?” he asks, taking another step. Another. My eyes flutter closed and my heart thunders like a herd of horses. As soon as his hand touches the side of my neck, I know I'm in trouble. Fire races through me, searing, agonizing. It incinerates me from the inside out. It melts me. It makes me wish I could blaze so long and so hot that there'd be nothing left at the end but ash.
Grainger curls his fingers around the back of my neck and draws me in close, each fingertip burning a small brand into my skin. That's one of the things that drove me crazy about him before, how possessive he is. I both loved and hated it.
“I want to fucking kiss you,” he says, and then, “I'm going to goddamn fucking kiss you.”
I keep my eyes closed, but the feel of his breath against my parted lips makes them open.
We're so close, I can see the tattoo near his right ear, the one that's partially buried under his hair. I can't quite make out the design, in this dusky light bathed with the colors from the stained glass, but I know from memory that it's of a sun and moon, intertwined like they're fucking.
Grainger leans down, cuts the distance between us, kisses my mouth and taints it filthy.
Fucking filthy.
Sin kissed me in the kitchen the other day … Grainger won't stop at a kiss.
I stumble back a few steps and he follows me, bumping my thighs into the high, curved back of one of the old pews. Without preamble or question, he drops his hands to my hips and lifts me up, parking me on the narrow edge so he can wedge his big body between my thighs.
“Grainger,” I start, but his lips have captured mine, taken them hostage with prurient fervor.
I knew I should fucking stay away from him! I think, but it's too late. My hands are on his chest, and his smell is mixing with the warm leather of his vest, the tobacco from his cigarettes, the distant burn of motor oil.
My thighs part of their own accord, and he leans in, grinding his sex to mine, rubbing against the carnal heat at my core.
Grainger and I exchange groans, growls, snarls of pleasure.
It occurs to me that we're in a church.
“We'll burn in hell for this,” I gasp as he tears the button on my jeans and sends it flying.
“Honey, hate to break it to you,” Grainger says, sliding a hand tattooed with the moon and stars into my jeans, cupping my pussy, slicking a finger across my opening, “but this is hell. Might as well enjoy the sins.”
Grainger takes my mouth like he's fucking me with his tongue, slipping his finger inside of me and teasing the tender walls of my cunt. My own hands drop to his belt, fumble it open, slip inside. My fingers find the long, velvety length of his cock, teasing the hot heat of his body with messy, groping strokes. I'm too out of practice—I've only had sex once before this—and too riled up to care about details and intricacies.
Messy, hot, desperate.
That's what this is.
Maybe if I do this … then I'll be able to fucking think again, like a logical person.
When I start to moan, nice and loud, Grainger clamps a hand over my mouth to keep the churchgoers on the other side of the wall from hearing me. Warm liquid drenches the hand that's inside my jeans—the fingers that are inside of me—as I gasp and fight the wild flickers of pleasure crashing into my body. Like shooting stars, the sensations pummel me, bury me, take me to a place that's either hell, as Grainger suggested, or heaven. Maybe both.
My fingers strain to keep pleasuring him, my grip loosening as Grainger grinds the heel of his hand to my clit, using those oft used skills of his to bring me to a violent climax, one that hurts almost as much as it feels good.
It does absolutely nothing to sate my feelings, to make me forget that two years ago … something happened with Grainger and me. With Sin and me. Crown and me. Beast and me. It happened, happened, happened, happened. And this is just more proof of that.
