Page 91 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
“Please tell me you’re going to fuck me,” I whisper, and he lets out a low, sultry chuckle. His resolve is ironclad—except when it comes to me. I broke him down before, got him to fuck me when he didn’t seem particularly inclined. I could do it again, couldn’t I?
He leans in close to me, taking my t-shirt by the hem and lifting it up and over my head. I raise my arms to make it easier, and he tosses it aside. When his huge, warm hands slide across my rib cage to grab the clasp of my bra, I buck my hips up against his torso, feeling the leather of his vest against my inner thighs.
“Tell me what a good wife you’ll be, Gidge, and I’ll give you something nice.” He puts his mouth near my ear as he undoes my bra and lets it fall between our bodies. His hand cups my breast, and I bite my lower lip in an attempt to keep my moans at a minimum.
“I can’t say that,” I murmur, pushing my chest into his hand and wishing he’d pinch my nipple. It aches, being so near to him. “I don’t fetch food and clean and plan parties. That isn’t me.”
Beast chuckles again, and thank the fucking gods, he actually brushes his thumb over the aching hardness of my nipple. I bite my lip even harder, making myself bleed. Doesn’t matter. It feels too good to care.
“You think I want a housewife?” he queries, like he’s actually curious as to what my answer might be. “I want a wife in leather who knows how to shoot.” He puts his mouth up against the side of my throat, running his tongue up to my ear and sending goose bumps springing across my skin. “On Monday, we’ll start those lessons I promised.”
It takes me a minute to tame my sex-addled brain and figure out what he’s talking about.
“Do you want to learn to defend yourself?”
Oh, that’s right. After Gaz beat me up, Beast offered to train me.
“I would very much like that,” I breathe as Beast kneads my breast, stroking my nipple, stroking that fire inside of me. He draws back slightly, replacing his thumb with the heat of his mouth. His tongue flicks over my pebbled nipple, and my hips buck up against him yet again. I’m so wet, I’m probably ruining his shirt.
He doesn’t seem to mind, trailing his lips across my collarbone before taking my other breast into his mouth and sucking it in just such a way that my cunt clamps down, making my lower belly muscles ache. I need to be filled. I want something inside. I don’t care if it’s his fingers or his cock, but I need it.
When I reach for his hand and put it on my pussy, he allows it, cupping me tightly and using his thumb to stroke the moist curls between my legs. Beast slides that same thumb in, and I nearly choke. It feels so good, finally getting that forbidden fruit I’ve been eying since I came back.
Having Beast when I was sixteen, then not having him for years, then tasting him briefly before I took off on Crown’s bike? Agony. It’s pure, unbridled agony. I need him so badly that I can’t even think of putting it into words. Instead, I grab him by the hair and try to drag him closer.
Instead, Beast pulls back from me, sliding his thumb out of my cunt. I can hear the sound of him sucking it clean.
“Say it.” Just two words. Not a request. Ugh.
“I’ll be a good wife,” I grind out, burning and aching and wanting so badly that it’s hard to think straight.
“Then trust me,” he says, and then I hear the creak of leather as he stands up.
“Where are you going?” I ask in a near panic, naked on the living room sofa with no idea of what this man is planning. It’s infuriating.
“Trust me, sugar,” he repeats, and then he’s walking away. I can’t see much with the drapes closed, with night lying heavy and ebon across the compound. I can hear him though, as he opens one of the pocket doors and leaves.
All I can hear for a minute there is my heart, racing so fast that I feel dizzy.
Trust me, sugar? What is this man up to?
More footsteps, the sound of the pocket door closing, a warm body kneeling in front of mine.
Only … this isn’t Beast. It’s someone else. The dizziness triples, my pulse picks up, and my skin goes flush with the promise of a stranger’s touch in the dark. I wish briefly that I hadn’t inherited Cat’s perceptiveness because, by smell alone, I know exactly who this is.
Even if they don’t speak.
Violets and suede.
Crown.
I don’t say his name. He doesn’t say mine. We don’t talk at all.
