Reckless, he’d called me, and I’d never felt it so acutely as in that moment, with Lucas Scott’s deadly hands jerking me hard against his body, his mouth doing wicked things to mine. I tugged at the buttons of his shirt as he pushed, pushed, pushed until my low back hit the sideboard where his execution prize sat.
He swiped the bottle aside, and it fell to the floor, spilling liquor onto the frayed carpet. The air grew thick with the fragrance of aged whiskey and bad decisions.
Lifting me to sit atop the sideboard, he wrapped my thighs around him, dragging me right to the edge until what he wanted and how much he wanted it became unbearably apparent. My blood sang in my veins at the feel of him pressed against me, awakening even the numbest parts inside—the places that hadn’t felt alive in months, that I thought were gone forever.
The places that hoped for more.
They ached with the stinging prickles of restored circulation, painful but necessary. I’d been half-alive when I came to him last spring, and unbeknownst to him, he’d spent the better part of six months waking me up…only to admit he planned to die despite it all.
Why did that only make me want to hold him tighter?
His mouth demanded submission, and I relented to the faint traces of peppermint and whiskey tickling my senses. Every breath held more of his scent, his very essence. Heat zapped down each nerve ending. Frantic need took the place of my common sense.
I tore at his shirt while he ripped mine over my head. He yanked the straps of my bralette down my shoulders until it circled my waist, then palmed one breast. His thumb dragged pleasure over the peak until I arched into his touch. Sound collected in my throat, some combination of a moan and a plea. He swallowed it with another bruising kiss. My nails made redlines down the strip of exposed skin between the panels of his shirt before I attacked the buckle of his belt and the zipper beneath.
Fevered and feral, I threw my head back when his mouth dipped to my neck, exposing the most vulnerable area of my body to this lethal predator. He kissed the spot my pulse pounded hardest, where the life-giving artery coursed just below the skin. His tongue trailed over it, then his teeth as I tightened my legs around him.
I wanted him closer. Needed it. Around me, on me, deep inside me.
And he knew it.
He felt it too.
I could sense it in his manic, possessive touch.
The tension between us ratcheted up. His vicious hands dove beneath the hem of my shorts, and I helped him drag them down my legs. They landed somewhere behind him as he took hold of my waist, holding me still so his gaze could rake down my body—bare chest heaving, legs spread wide for him.
God, that look on his face. I could get addicted to that look.
I recalled that day so long ago, when I’d been terrified of what he might do to me. I remembered his answering frustration.
If I want to fuck you, I’ll make it obvious.
Thiswas obvious.
This was a man desperate for the relief my body could give him.
This was Lucas Scott screaming his desire into the void.
My heart pounded in my throat, in my head, deep in my center where my blood turned to molten gold, glowing at that hunger on his face. I was captured by the savage want in his eyes—the want forme. I couldn’t look away from it. Not when he caught his lip between his teeth. Not when he pulled himself from his briefs, fisting his length. Not when he braced his handon the wall behind me. Not even when he took my hip in a tight grip and thrust deep inside me.
I sucked in a breath at the invasion. Exquisite and excruciating at the same time. Wrong. Right. Black. White. I didn’t care about the dichotomy. I wanted to dive into him and mix us both into gray.
Through it all, I kept my eyes on his, and finally, aquamarine lifted to mine.
Slow. Dark. Greedy.
He moved, dragging in and out, painting his name all over me with each thrust. His mouth touched mine again, but not in a kiss. It was as if he couldn’t help himself, like he needed to breathe me into his lungs, just like I needed him.
We existed in a desperate place, a dangerous place, one we likely wouldn’t survive. But Lucas Scott held out his hand, and instead of running, I took it. I gripped tight and let him pull me right to the edge of his knife.
The precariousness of it all wracked me with foolish despair, and I wrapped myself around him, arms and legs, fingernails clawing to keep him there—right there—even though it was impossible. A powerful arm encircled me, and his thrusts grew longer, deeper, harder, hitting a spot I didn’t even know existed.
The glowing spot.
I didn’t want to come.
Not like this.
