Page 48 of The King (Masterpiece Duet 1)
I can’t imagine moaning. “How do you know?”
“Because I did dream of you, Penny. I dreamed of you and I watched you and I wanted you. Even though I knew it was wrong, I couldn’t stop. It isn’t about how old you are—it’s you. It’s only ever been you.”
That’s the last thing I hear before his lips press against mine. Then there’s only empty sky in my head, only starlight, only a vast and pulsing space. There are no walls here. Nothing that could possibly separate us. His mouth so hot against mine that I’m melting, turned liquid in his hard grip.
Square inch by square inch, my body relaxes. Only then do I realize how tense I was. How tense I’ve been my whole life, braced for something awful to happen.
As if he were waiting for that sign, Damon moves against me. A new configuration of his mouth against mine, a new kind of kiss, every curve completely distinct. Pleasure sparks across my lower lip, and I realize he tasted me. Oh God, his tongue. He touched me with his tongue.
My lips part on a gasp, whether from sensation or shock.
He takes the advantage, nudging my mouth open. Opening me like a petal grown wide and blooming. Then his tongue touches mine. My whole body changes then, becomes something flushed and alive, every cell breathing for the first time. There are feelings in new places, a heat between my legs, a terrible tension that I think only he can fix for me.
I’ve touched myself under the covers before, but it’s never hurt like this.
There’s something happening inside. A change.
A sound breaks through the silence, low and sensual. It’s me.
And just like that he sits back. In the space he had been there’s only empty space. My breathing comes fast, my whole body aching and hot. I feel like he took me apart and put me back together. A child before. A woman now. And every womanly part of me attuned to him, wanting more.
He breathes hard, staring at me with something like desperation. “Fuck,” he says.
“Please more,” I say, before I even know that I’m pleasing him. Before I see the flash of pure desire in his dark eyes. I like you moaning and needy and begging me for more.
How much more could he make me do?
He stands, abrupt and impersonal. “That’s enough.”
“That’s enough,” I repeat, my voice hollow. “That’s what you have to say to me?”
A cruel smile mars his beautiful face, and even before he speaks, I know it will cut me. “What do you want to hear? That kissing you was so magical that I never want to touch another woman, never want to look at one? That you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted this badly?”
I flinch at his tone, but it’s a mistake. It’s blood in the water. “Don’t be like that.”
“Oh, but that’s what I am. Remember? I’m a criminal. A cold-blooded killer. So callous that I took money from a sad old man who can’t fucking stop gambling the money that should feed his daughter.”
The reminder of my daddy makes my breath catch. There’s something that can pierce the haze of desire. Grief can do it. A grief so hard and tight it’s a fist in my chest. “You didn’t take it. You gave him money.”
“You’re right,” he says, his voice silky smooth. So like his father it slices me open. Like two hands on either side of a wound, pulling the skin apart. “I gave him money he could never repay. Because there’s something I want more than his debt. There’s you.”
I’m completely flat. Two dimensional. Made into an object without value.
“Stop it,” I whisper.
“That’s not what you were saying a few minutes ago.”
“And this isn’t what you were saying a few minutes ago,” I say, tears hot against my eyelids.
“True. There’s something painfully sweet about your little jailbait mouth. But I can’t let you distract me. Not with Jonathan Scott still roaming the streets.”
That’s what this is about. His father. His hunt.
And that look in his eyes—I recognize it too well. The one Mama would get before she found a new boyfriend with new needles. The one Daddy gets before the rent money disappears. There’s always an addiction. And God, the books on the nightstand prove no one’s really immune.
“Then stay,” I say, more afraid for him than myself. There’s a reckless aura around him. A violence that seems almost directed at himself—or the man who made him that way. “Stay here with me.”
He gives me a crooked smile, eerie because of how sweet it looks. “No, baby genius. You know the answer is no. I have something else to do first.”
“You’re not a killer. You said you were, but you’re not.”
I don’t know if I’m trying to convince him or me. How could I love a murderer?
