Every part of his mind screamed it as his body responded to hers with an intensity that bordered on violence.
Her hands tore at his shirt, nails raking across his chest, and he forgot why this was a bad idea as she pulled it over his head.
“Fuck,” Shadera breathed as his teeth scraped along her collarbone. “This doesn’t—this doesn’t change anything.”
“Shut up,” Greyson growled against her skin. His hands moved to her thighs, lifting her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her back arching as he pressed her harder against the fridge.
One hand found its way to her throat, fingers wrapping around the delicate column with careful pressure. He knew what she wanted, what she liked. And he would give her everything she needed. Her eyes fluttered at the contact, a small, helpless sound escaping her that undid him. The power of it—her vulnerability, her surrender—was intoxicating.
He carried her to the island, sweeping bottles and glasses to the floor with one arm. They shattered at his feet, adding to the destruction around them. He set her on the edge of the counter, his mouth never leaving hers, his hands pushing beneath her shirt to find the warm skin beneath.
She was fucking perfect—all lean muscle and soft curves, strength and femininity combined in a lethal package that fit against him like she’d been made for his hands. His fingers traced the outline of her breasts, brushing over her hard nipples, and the moan that vibrated through her chest nearly brought him to his knees.
And when she bit into his shoulder hard enough to mark, he thought he might lose his fucking mind.
He couldn’t hold back any longer. He undid the button on her pants, then the zipper. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as his fingers slid under the fabric and groaned against her neck as they were greeted with her dripping arousal.
She was so fucking wet and every ounce of it was for him.
“Shit,” he breathed through his teeth as his fingers began to circle her clit and moan after moan spilled from her lungs.
It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever fucking heard.
He paused for one moment, bringing his lips back to hers, running his tongue over her bottom lip, then plunged two fingers inside of her. A cry erupted from Shadera’s throat as he pumped them in and out slowly, burying them deeper inside her with every thrust. Her bodyclung to him, pulling him deeper, and a groan vibrated out of his lungs at the feeling.
Everything blurred as she began to ride his hand, pushing her hips down onto him and rolling them.
He was going to fuck her. And he would not be gentle.
Greyson slid his mouth to her ear as his fingers sunk all the way inside of her. “I need you to tell me you want this. I need to hear you say it or tell me to stop right now. Because I won’t be soft with you. I’m going to make you fucking scream for me, Shadera.”
Her answer was a devastating roll of her hips and a moan, then words. “Do your fucking worst, little heir.”
A growl left Greyson’s mouth, his cock hardening at her words as he pushed another finger inside of her. He worked his way down her body with his lips as her hands curled into his hair. His tongue and teeth trailed fire along her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breast above her shirt. Greyson pushed the fabric up with his free hand, exposing her stomach, the taut plane of muscles there contrasting with the softness of her skin.
His tongue swirled across her nipples over the lace fabric, nipping at them. Her breath hitched as she arched further into him, a breathy groan slipping from her lips. He traced a path farther down her body, his tongue slipping along her waistband as he reluctantly pulled his fingers from inside of her to remove her pants.
Greyson’s fingers hooked around the fabric, her hips rising as two things fell from her pocket.
They both froze.
Greyson’s eyes locked on the photograph. Him and Brooker, unmasked, smiling. The photograph from his bedroom. The one he’d hidden. The one no one else should have.
He pulled back, his hands leaving her body as he bent to retrieve theitems.
“Where did you get this?” His voice had gone cold, all heat evaporating in an instant.
She slid off the island, adjusting her clothes. “Does it matter?”
“Where did you get this?” He repeated, anger replacing every other emotion.
She met his gaze steadily. “Who is he?”
Greyson stepped back, the distance between them growing with each heartbeat. The reminder of what she was, of who she was, hit him with excruciating force as he stared at the picture then looked up at her.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward his bedroom, the photograph clutched in his hand. He could feel her eyes on his back, as he left the bodies and the wreckage behind, but she didn’t follow, didn’t call after him.
The door slammed behind him as he drove his fist into the wall hard enough to puncture the plaster. Pain lanced up his arm, grounding him, clearing his head from the desire, the alcohol.
