Page 45 of Dreadful

“You won’t sleep in my bed anymore, yeah? But you’ll fuck my brothers in the pool?” I lean in closer, dropping my voice. “And you made me watch.”

Something flickers across her face. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t look away. “I didn’t fuck them in the pool. And no one can make you do anything—isn’t that what you always tell me?”

“Baby girl.” Her nickname has never sounded so condescending before. “We’ve been through this before, hm? How many fucking years did I have to watch?”

“No one is forcing you,” she challenges, pushing an inch off the door and pressing against me.

Pool water soaks my clothes, but I barely feel it. Not when that fire I crave shines from the depths in her eyes.

“And no one is sidelining you, either. If you want me… take me,” she breathes the last two words against my lips.

The dare lands and my brain goes offline.

I close the last inch between us and kiss her the way I’ve been not kissing her for years.

Our teeth knock together. Neither of us pulls back.

All that time. All that careful fucking distance. It’s got nowhere to go now except into this, and I let it.

Her jaw is trembling where I’ve got my hand cupped against it. I notice it the same way I notice everything about her—too fast, too clearly, before I can decide not to. It does something mean and satisfying to that I’ll think about later and feel bad about probably never.

I don’t give her an inch to reconsider.

She grabs my shirt in her fist and hauls me closer, and that—that—is what gets me. Not the kiss. The wanting in her grip. The fact that she’s pulling instead of pushing.

Her towel goes. Afternoon light finds the water still on her skin, a slow bead tracking down from her collarbone, and I watch it without being able to stop.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I murmur into her mouth with a groan.

I palm the backs of her thighs and lift. Her legs come around my waist, and she rolls her hips once—just once—and the noise I make when the warm pussy drags against my cock is not something I’ll be proud of later.

Her mouth crashes into mine, all teeth and tongue and heat.

But then she pushes at my shoulders—just a nudge, but it’s enough to break the spell. I let her slide down my body, every inch of contact searing through me until her feet hit the floor. My cock is throbbing, hard enough to ache, and when she shoves me back a step, I go willingly.

Again and again, she nudges me, until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed.

“Sit,” she murmurs against my jaw, voice rough.

I collapse onto it, staring at the ceiling fan that’s definitely not mine. I glance to my left, toward the headboard.

“Fuck.” We’re in Bishop’s room.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, running her hands up my thighs as she drops to her knees between my legs.

“Absolutely nothing.” And I mean it. He’ll get over it—or he won’t, but I couldn’t fucking care less right now.

Her fingers work my zipper with deliberate slowness. The rasp echoes around the room like a confession. Then her hand wraps around me, and I’m cataloging every detail—the cool dampness of her palm from the pool, the exact pressure of her thumb against the vein, the way she watches my face like she’s memorizing everything.

A sound rips out of me—half laugh, half surrender—as she strokes me slow.

“Seems like you enjoyed watching,” she purrs.

And Christ, that tone. The one she used to use when she’d catch my wave years ago.

“Fuck,” I grit out when her nail traces that sensitive ridge underneath.

My brain supplies the memory of Rafe’s hand on her in the pool. The green tide rises.