Page 57 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
I would’ve bet the lives of myself, Reba, and Fem on him turning me in. Hunting me down himself. Facilitating a kill for Cat or Beast or Gaz.
I must not know him at all. Maybe no one does?
“What would you have rather had me do? Grab your sixteen-year-old ass and haul you to the courthouse with daddy in tow, let him sign the papers so we could get married?” Crown is holding me with one hand, studying my face, searching me for something that I can’t quite explain.
I look right back at him, and even if the quips are good, even if my pussy aches and begs for his touch, I let the whole truth show in my face.
Yes.
“Well, you snooze, you lose. You waited too long, Crown. Now you’re going to have to learn to share.”
His grip tightens on my wrists, and I squirm. It’s been years since we had sex. Years. I’ve had carnal dreams about this man, I won’t lie.
“I don’t enjoy sharing,” he says, his voice dark and dangerous, threaded through with libidinous intent.
“So they all say,” I retort, thrusting my hips up and grinding against his leg for a third time.
He grits his teeth, shoving his leg harder against me and drawing a ragged moan from my throat.
“You were born to be my wife, Gidge,” he says, and even if the words are ground out like an insult, I like them. A lot. “I could have you.” I said that to him once. Even then, I knew it was true. What I didn’t realize was that, even if we both ache and bleed and want for one another, it’s still going to be a challenge.
Fucking other guys is one thing. That’s what Beast’s given me permission to do.
Loving other guys? That’s … it isn’t something anyone in this culture would ever understand.
“And if I’m going to marry Beast anyway?” I start, and Crown makes this deep, guttural sound of frustration, so at odds with his usual put-togetherness. The false cheer he straps on for others, the way he did when he came over with my friends and swam in our pool. This, somehow, feels the most real of all his different sides.
“You are downright determined to piss me off tonight, aren’t you?” he asks, and then he goes to pull away from me. Releases my wrists. Slides his leg back. It hits home then: I crave him, and I can’t bear to let him go. I lunge up and wrap my fingers in his leather cut, my thumb brushing over the patch that says Vice President on it.
“You betrayed the club for me. Don’t you at least want something for your effort?” I breathe, putting my mouth right up against his, tasting him. He tastes so damn good. Like the promise of something I never believed I could have. That I still, in this moment, don’t believe I can have.
But I want it.
I want it so badly.
“Be my armor, Crown,” I whisper, the alcohol convincing me to be even bolder than I normally would. “I want to wear you like a shield, carry you into battle with me.” I suck on his lower lip, and he closes his eyes, his hands finding my hips and squeezing so hard that I let out a small sound. “That’s what I want out of all this. You. Them. The four of you—my dark knights instead of Cat’s. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”
He opens his eyes. This close up, I’m struck by the color of them. I’ve never seen another person with eyes like Crown’s, like lichen in the boughs of a pine tree, a soft muted green that catches the wind and rides it.
“We all want things we can’t have,” is his reply, but then he’s cupping the back of my head with a huge hand and kissing me in that infuriating way of his, like roses and champagne or some shit. Only, our roses are red simply because they’re dipped in blood. Our champagne is tainted with ash as it falls from the sky, the only remnants left of a once vibrant wood.
Crown takes control of the situation in a way that’s different from, say, Grainger. He isn’t just possessive—although there is possession in his touch—or domineering; he’s simply in charge. He is, without complaint or doubt or question, the boss.
“You’ll be president someday,” I breathe against his mouth, and he stills. His entire body goes stiff as I wrap my arms around his muscular neck, fingers teasing that gently waving hair of his. “And you’d do a much better job than Cat.”
“Gidget,” he warns me, and then he picks me up off the bed, cradling my ass with his hands. “Haven’t you been treasonous enough lately?” Crown sits down in the billiard green armchair in front of the fire, settling me on his lap. There’s just enough authority in his touch, in his voice, that I feel myself tilting toward him like he’s the sun. Just enough that I don’t feel the need to rebel, to fight, to scratch and scream and run. “Get on your knees, Gidge.”
