Page 58 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
Well, shit.
I hesitate briefly, but Crown fists his hand in my hair, forcing me to hold his gaze.
“I lied for you, yes. That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you run right over me. If you want to play games with grown men, then we’ll play. Get on your knees. This is the last time I’m going to ask.”
I give him a sharp look, my scalp stinging just enough that the energy in his grip travels straight through my Grainger-tainted blood to my clit.
“If you have to ask again?” I query, because I just can’t help myself.
Crown returns my look with one built of solemnity.
“Then I’m going to leave, and I’ll be one of Beast’s groomsmen and nothing more. Prove to me that you can follow orders, and I’ll consider making you a pretty, little soldier.”
Even though his words kill me, even though submission is not in my blood, I do as he asks. I figure I owe him this much, at least. His life is literally in my hands, resting on my scarred palm like a weapon. At any time, I could ruin him. Ruin him the way he ruined me that night.
“You’re not going to tell me to go to my room and keep quiet after this?” I murmur, my hands on his knees. It surprises me how much hurt there still is inside of me when I think about that night. For years, I’ve been telling myself that none of it mattered, that I didn’t care.
Except that I did. I do. I always will.
“You’re not going to be ashamed of me tomorrow?” I continue when he doesn’t answer. My eyes lift to his, but I don’t think he ever stopped watching me.
“I was never ashamed of you, Gidge,” he says with a long, tired sounding sigh. “I was ashamed of myself. Now, be quiet and take my belt off.” The edge of his mouth quirks up in a bit of a smile, a remnant of that vivid grin he gets sometimes, proof that he does know, somewhere deep down, how to be happy. “You didn’t need much of an invitation last time.”
With a huff—because I will always be contrary down to my bones—I lift up on my knees and reach for his belt, the silver buckle in the shape of a star, like something a sheriff might wear. Not for the first time, I wonder how someone as upstanding as Officer Reid became Vice President Crown.
“Lift my shirt up,” he tells me, just after I slide the belt from his loops with a hiss and toss it aside. “Kiss me all over, Gidge. Show me how much you appreciate what I did for you.”
“Fucker,” I murmur, but I can’t pretend I’m not excited by the sight of his abs as I push his t-shirt up and find hard planes and valleys waiting for my hungry tongue. There are tattoos on his hips that I never got the chance to study before. Now that I’m down here, face-to-face with them, I can see that one is a grave and the other is Lady Justice.
A shiver takes over me.
“Tell me your story?” I ask, just before I press my lips to Crown’s taut belly. A shudder ripples through him and he fists his fingers in my hair. There’s something to it, that grip, his control, his power, that makes my entire body flush warm with want.
“Not today,” he breathes out as I lick my way up, lifting his shirt as I go. Crown’s skin is just salty enough that he tastes wholly and completely male, but with an undertone of soap, like his sweat is fresh, like he showered for me first. “But maybe soon. If you’re a good girl.”
That gives me some pause right there. A good girl.
“I’ve never been a good girl, Crown.” My lips move against his skin as I talk, making him tense and groan as I punctuate the sentence with flicks of my tongue. “I’ve always been a very, very bad girl.”
He lifts my head back with his grip on my hair and looks down at me with what I like to call his ‘vice president’ stare.
“You’ll be a good girl for me,” he says, his voice strong and firm. Confident. He fully and utterly expects me to follow his rules. Crown releases my hair and then reaches down, undoing his jeans and taking the heavy, thick length of his cock into his hand. The tip glistens with pre-ejac, proof that Crown is as helpless to fight his desire for me as I am for him. “Suck me off, Gidge. Show me gratitude.”
The fingers of my right hand curl around the base of him, my eyes locked on his face, watching his reaction to my touch. It’s as if we’re weaving a dark spell together, something wanton, something ribald, something lascivious. A dance of devils.
