Page 24 of Razor’s Redemption

I need this. Need to feel cherished, adored and desired for just one goddamn night. Need to remember what it's like to be Daisy instead of just someone's mother or employee.

Razor's thumb is still circling my nipple through my bra, and I'm so wet I can feel it soaking through my underwear. I pull back from the kiss, breathing hard.

"Take it off," I whisper.

"What?"

"My bra. Take it off."

He doesn't need to be told twice. His hands slide around to my back, finding the clasp, and he unhooks it with surprising dexterity for someone who claims he's terrible at most things. I let the straps fall down my arms, and he pulls the bra away completely.

His eyes go dark as he stares at my breasts. Full and heavy, nipples tight from the cold and arousal. I fight the urge to cover myself, to hide the stretch marks and the way they sag more than they used to before I had Luna.

"Fucking gorgeous," he mutters, and then his mouth is on me.

I gasp, head falling back, as he sucks my nipple into his mouth. His other hand palms my other breast, kneading, and I'm grinding against him harder now, desperate for friction. He switches sides, lavishing the same attention on the other breast, and I'm making sounds I haven't made in years, high, needy and absolutely shameless.

"Razor…" I pant. "Your shirt. Take it off."

He releases my breast with a wet pop and pulls back just enough to yank his shirt over his head. And oh my God.

I knew he was well built, could feel the muscle under his jacket, could see hints of it in the way he moved. But seeing him like this, bare-chested in the dim light filtering through the car windows, is something else entirely.

He's incredible. Defined six-pack, broad shoulders, muscles that shift under tattooed skin with every breath. There are scars across his chest. Thin white lines that look old, a puckered circle near his ribs that might be a bullet wound or something worse. Evidence of a life lived hard, survived against odds.

I run my hands down his chest, tracing the ridges of his abs, feeling him shudder under my touch. His cock twitches beneath me, and I can't help myself.

I slide off his lap onto the seat beside him and reach for his belt.

"Daisy" His voice is rough, strained. "You don't have to…"

"I want to."

I unbuckle his belt, pop the button of his jeans, pulling down the zipper. He lifts his hips, and together we work his jeans and boxers down his thighs. His cock springs free, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip.

Holy shit.

He's big. Bigger than Jason ever was. The kind of size that should probably intimidate me, but all I feel is lust.

I wrap my hand around him, can barely get my fingers all the way around, and he groans, head falling back against the seat.

"Fuck, Daisy!"

I stroke him once, twice, watching his face. Watching the way his jaw clenches, the way his hands fist against the seat. Then I lean down and take him in my mouth.

"Jesus Christ!"

I work him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, using my hand to stroke what I can't fit. Saliva drips from the corners of my mouth, messy and wet, and I don't care. I gag slightly as I take him deeper, and he groans so loudly I'm half-afraid someone in the parking lot will hear.

"Daisy, fuck! You're incredible, so fucking good with your mouth."

His hand comes to rest on the back of my head, not pushing, just there. Grounding. I take him deeper still, feeling him hit the back of my throat, and he curses.

"You keep doing that and I'm gonna come down your throat," he grits out.

I pull off with a wet sound, look up at him through my lashes. "Not yet."

"Not what?"