Page 60 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
Sin isn’t the only one who appreciates me the way I am. Crown’s gaze is hungry and dark, and when he rises from his chair to stand over me, I look up to meet his voracious expression with one of my own. Carefully, reverently, he reaches up and traces a finger over the bandage covering my shoulder before taking my head in his hands. He kisses me with that punishing mouth of his, the one that commands armies of leather-clad demons on bikes. The one that dares stand up to Cat, the devil himself. The voice of the man who saved my life with a lie.
Crown’s right hand slides down the side of my neck, over my shoulder, down my arm, and then settles on my waist, leaving trails of fire in its wake. He continues to kiss me, drawing the moment out until it’s hot and sticky, until I’m trembling against him, my fingernails scratching at the leather of his vest. When he moves his hand again, he wastes no time in cupping my cunt with a firm, demanding grip.
“Should I tell you how every groupie I fucked was a stand-in for you? Should I tell you that no woman has ever had power over me the way you do?” He squeezes me, grinding the heel of his hand into my clit and making me raise up on my toes, my thighs parting to give him access.
“No. Don’t talk about other women—ever.” It’s the only command he allows from me, a laugh breaking from his lips just before he presses them to mine again, slipping a single finger into my waiting heat. A groan escapes us both as he teases the silky slickness between my legs, churning up that wild fire inside of me that Grey simply could not summon.
I could’ve married him, ruled the mafia. He offered me something I’d never been offered before: a chance at an equal partnership. A chance to rule. To command. But, as much as I love the guy, he couldn’t give me this.
He couldn’t give me passion.
I don’t want to rule the mafia; it’s the club that I want. I’m a barbarian, through and through. Tainted. Dressed. Reveling in ruin, in sin, wanting for glory.
I just hope that coming back here, settling in here, isn’t a mistake that I’ll regret.
I could ask the boys to spirit me away, get a normal job, live a normal life, fuck a normal man.
The thought is horrifying.
He adds a second finger, and I gasp, pressing my forehead into his chest. I’m a tall girl, but he’s much taller. I’m up on my tiptoes, offering myself, quivering, clinging to him.
Crown fucks my hungry cunt with slow, confident motions, like he has all the time in the world. Like we’re not at war with the mafia. Like I’m not engaged to Beast. Like I’m not in love with four different men.
Love.
The thought terrifies me. Love is both a strength and a weakness. Trust me, I’ve loved before and it destroyed me. Every day that I live without my sisters, I give something up, some little part of myself in sacrifice to the melancholy that threatens to overwhelm me. The only possible way that I can keep going is by collecting more. More memories, more passion, more … love. So I have to open myself up to more pain in order to move past the rest of it.
It’s dangerous.
More dangerous than stealing that bike, than stealing Grey, than living with the mafia.
Falling in love may well be the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.
Crown holds me against him, drawing my wetness onto his hand, listening to the pulse of my body until I’m certain that my knees are going to give out and I’ll find myself crumpled on the floor, pleading and begging for release.
“On your hands and knees,” he murmurs against me, withdrawing his hand. He brings those fingers right to his lips, sliding them into his mouth and sucking my nectar off, twirling his tongue around them to make sure he gets every last drop.
There’s no resistance left in me. I just want this. I just … sometimes, I get so tired. Sometimes, I just want someone else to take care of my life, to guide me, to hold me. It used to be Queenie that did it, direct my anger at the right things, hug me when I needed it, scold me when I deserved it. But Queenie is gone and here Crown stands.
I do as he says, getting on all fours in front of the fire.
It takes a minute, but when Crown moves up behind me, I can feel his skin on every part of me. He must be naked, I think, with this flutter inside of me that demands I turn back and look.
“No.” Crown pushes my attention in the other direction, until I realize what, exactly, it is that he wants me to look at. There’s a glass door on the bottom half of the bookshelf in front of us, one that reflects the two of us back like a mirror. I can see him behind me, covered in tattoos that tell a story, his skin tanned from the sun, free from tan lines, as if he must get naked and bathe himself in its light every so often. “Watch me.”
