Page 100 of Ruin
His lips close around my clit and he sucks, hard, while his fingers curl and press and find the place inside me that detonates everything I've been holding together.
I come with my thighs clamped around his head and tears streaming silently down my face.
Not from pain.
Not from pleasure, exactly.
From the devastating recognition that I am exactly where I want to be.
In the office of the man who destroyed my family.
On the desk where he plans operations and calculates territorial logistics and signs orders that end people's lives.
With his mouth between my legs and his collar on my throat and no more lies between us.
This is the truth I've been running from, and it caught me, and it feels like relief and ruin at the same time.
He stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
His eyes are dark and his breathing is ragged and the front of his pants strains against an erection that he hasn't moved to address, like this was about me, just me, and what he needs is secondary.
But I don't want secondary.
I don't want him controlled and considerate and careful.
I want the man underneath all of that, the one I heard through the wall at all hours of the night pacing and pouring whiskey and being as wrecked as I am.
I reach for his waistband and he catches my wrist. "You don't have to?—"
"Shut up, Cassius." I undo his belt and pull him free.
He's hard and hot against my palm, and the sound he makes when I wrap my fingers around him is the most honest thing I've heard from him since the night he confessed. "I don't want your restraint. I don't want you handling me. I want you to stop performing and justfeelthis."
I pull him to the edge of the desk, guide him to my entrance and he pauses there, the head of him pressing against me, and the look on his face is asking a question his mouth won't form.
I wrap my legs around him and pull him in.
He slides into me slowly.
Inch by inch, filling me with a completeness that makes my breath stutter and my head drop forward against his chest.
This isn't the violent thrust of last time.
This is something more honest.
This is two people who know exactly what they're doing and choosing to do it anyway.
I hold his face in my hands, force him to look at me while he moves inside me, slow and deep, each stroke dragging against the places that are still swollen and sensitive from last night.
"Don't close your eyes," I say. "I want you to see me. Not the girl you created. Not the weapon you built.Me."
His rhythm falters.
Something cracks behind those steel-gray eyes like a fissure opening in stone, and the raw thing I see underneath is not the crime lord, or the strategist, or the man who killed my parents.
It's something younger. Something that might be afraid.
His forehead drops to mine, and he makes a sound I've never heard from him.
