“You want to feel worse, Thorne? You want me to tell you that you’re a piece of shit?” His voice drops, and he leans in closer. “That you’re wearing my dead brother’s ring while spreading out on his bed, looking at me with those big fucking eyes.”
“Yes,” I say.
His hand grips the blanket right next to my hip, close enough that I feel the energy coming off him. “You followed me up here. Chased me into his room. Why?”
“To yell at you for embarrassing me.”
“Bullshit.” His eyes rake over my face, down to where my chest is rising and falling too fast. “Why?”
“Because…” I roll my lip between my teeth, not knowing how to answer that.
“Because you wanted to feel worse?” he says, moving his other hand, caging me in. “Or did you want to feelme?”
Heat spread to my cheeks and neck. “Both.”
“That’s fucked up, Thorne.”
“So are you.” I reach up and fist my hand in his shirt, pulling him closer. “You made a scene down there. Forced everyone to look at me. Put me at the family table like you own me.”
“Maybe I wanted them to see you as mine. Owen’s name might have fallen from my lips, but that act was all me.”
“Who’s fucked up now?”
His forehead drops so we’re breathing each other in, just an inch closer and our lips would be touching. “But you liked it, didn’t you? You liked me claiming you in front of all those people. I bet it made you soaking wet.”
Fuck.
I should deny it and shove him away. But I whisper, “Yes,” quiet enough that maybe the Devil won’t hear me.
He makes a sound low in his throat, and his hand moves from the blanket to my waist, his fingers digging in. “We’re going to Hell for this.”
“Maybe we’re already there.” My free hand slides up to his neck, feeling his pulse racing under my fingertips.
His hand slips under the hem of my dress, grazing up my outer thigh. “Then what’s a little more sin?”
I should say something. This is so fucking wrong. But his lips brush against my jaw and every coherent thought evaporates.
His mouth trails down my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes my throat. His hand moves higher, skimming my hip, and I feel him growing hard against me.
“I think about you every fucking day,” he murmurs against my skin. “Every time he touched you. Every time you were his and not mine.”
“Knox, please,” I beg, though I don’t even know for what.
“You wore that ring to torment me, didn’t you?” His thumb traces the edge of my thong. I fist his shirt and arch into him, causing a low groan to leave his lips. “I fucking know you did.”
“No.” But my body betrays me as I tilt my head to give him better access.
“Liar.” His teeth sink into my neck, not hard enough to mark but enough to make me gasp. “You wanted me to see it…wanted me to lose my fucking mind. Just like the hickey that day.”
His thumb slips beneath the fabric, so close to where I need him. I stop breathing, stop thinking, every part of me is focusing on how he feels against me.
“Is this what you wanted?” His breath is hot against my ear. “Me touching you in his bed? Me making you feel exactly how wrong this is?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “God, yes.”
His lips crash into mine, brutal and claiming, his tongue invading my mouth while his fingers finally slide through my wet folds. I moan into his mouth and his hips press harder against me, letting me feel exactly how much he wants this too.
My hands are everywhere—his hair, his shoulders, pulling at his shirt until buttons pop. But it’s not enough. I need skin. I need to feel him, all of him.
