Page 136 of Cold Mercy

She grabs my hand, lifts it to her throat, and presses it there.

“No,” she whispers, her pulse hammering against my palm. “Exactly like that.”

My pupils blow wide, and a curse rumbles out of me as my fingers tighten just enough to feel the frantic, bird-like beat of her heart against my palm.

“Jesus Christ, Sophia…”

I bow down, my mouth finding the sensitive cord of her neck, my tongue tracing her pulse while my grip on her throat holds her exactly where I want her. She arches into me, helpless, fucking needy, and the sound she makes nearly unravels me.

My other hand runs down her side, slow and deliberate, worshiping and claiming in the same touch. When I reach her hip, my fingers flex, fighting the urge to just tear the dress off her right then and there.

I pull back an inch, glancing down at the fabric with a breathless, incredulous laugh.

“We really didn’t think this through,” I say hoarsely.

“Just rip it,” she says.

My eyes snap to hers.

“Ohhh, I knew it,” I exhale roughly, a dark satisfaction curling in my chest. “That you're not a fucking saint.”

“Of course I’m not,” she murmurs, her fingers tight on my jaw, pulling me back to her. “Now be a good boy and rip the fucking dress.”

The sharp sound of fabric tearing fills the room as the bodice splits open, leaving her suddenly bare-skinned under my hands. My breath catches in my throat, and I realize with a jolt that I have never lost my composure like this before.

A low, reverent ‘fuck’ slips out before I crash my mouth to her chest, her shoulder, her throat, everywhere I can reach. I want to mark her. I want to leave a trace on her skin so deep that even when I’m gone, she’ll still feel my hands on her body. I want to be the memory she can’t wash off.

My hands fly to her hips, dragging her down between my thighs until I can feel her heat against me.

She feels my dick throbbing against her, hard and demanding.

“God, Sophia,” I groan against her skin. “I’m going to fucking ruin you.”

“Good,” she whispers against my jaw. “I want to be ruined by you.”

I tear my white shirt off in one movement, buttons scattering across the floor. I stand over her for a second, just looking, unable to believe she’s finally mine.

Suddenly, her eyes drop to my chest, and then, more slowly, to the scars.

“Fuck, Thomas,” she breathes, reaching out.

I catch her wrists, pinning them above her head, covering her body with mine to distract her. I kiss her, hard and fast, then move to her ear.

“Wait with that for later, princess,” I growl. “Right now I just need to claim what's mine.”

I pull back just enough to rip open my belt buckle. I watch her swallow as she sees me, her eyes wide, her thighs trembling.

“Holy fuck,” she breathes.

I smirk, feeling a surge of primal pride. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I move lower, trailing kisses down her throat, over her chest, until I reach her ribs. My fingers trace the delicate ink of the butterfly, and then the faint, silver lines beneath it.

I pause, pressing my lips to the scars, gentle and reverent.

She flinches, her breath hitching.

“You don’t have to,” she whispers, trying to shift away.