Page 53 of Life Or Death

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LUCIFER

She didn’t want me to stop.

The words replay in my head like a broken record, each rotation sending another bolt of electricity straight to my cock. She was in pain, and she still wanted my mouth on her. That knowledge is almost too much for me to accept, so before I fall to my knees and drape her legs over my shoulders, I sweep her off her feet and into my arms in one fluid motion.

She gasps, her arms immediately winding around my neck.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you somewhere you can sit.”

I turn and carry her toward the clubhouse, ignoring the way her body molds perfectly against mine. It’s like she was fucking made for me. I adjust my grip beneath her thighs, and her breath hitches slightly as her fingers find the hair at the nape of my neck.

Desperate to put her down so she can’t torture me with her touch, I pick up the pace. When I finally make it inside the clubhouse, I deposit her gently onto one of the leather couches in the main room. She stares up at me—her cheeks still flushed. Lips still fucking swollen, and the bruises on her neck somewhat darker.

I groan as something possessive and primal roars inside me, and my cock—which is completely unconcerned that she’s hurting—throbs against the zipper of my jeans.

In all my years, I have never been this on edge with a woman. It’s not so much a want as it is a need. I need to be inside her. I need to feel her wrapped around me, her sweet pussy squeezing me tight, milking every drop of cum from me.

I need it like I fucking need air.

I clear my throat, forcing my gaze away from the marks I left on her.

“Do you want something to drink?” I motion toward the bar with a jerk of my chin. “Might take the edge off.”

She laughs slightly, the soft, breathy sound doing absolutely nothing to help the situation in my jeans.

“You’re going to serve me?”

I shrug, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I’m no bartender, but I can pour a shot.”

She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, contemplating the offer, and I track the movement. Those fucking lips would look so pretty wrapped around me. It’d be a tight fit, but I bet with a little praise, she’d stretch that mouth wide for me.

Her teeth release the plump flesh, and she nods.

“Okay.”

I adjust myself through my jeans, turning toward the bar before she can see just how fucking hard I am. I grab the first bottle my hand lands on and snag two shot glasses from the shelf. When I return to the couch, her right leg is propped on the seat beside her, and her dress is hiked to her thigh as she rubs the spot behind her knee.

I sit beside her and pour two fingers into each glass. She takes hers, our fingers brushing, and the contact sends a jolt up my arm.

“To weddings,” I mutter, because I can’t think of anything else.

She lifts her glass, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on her lips. “To weddings.”

Our glasses clink, and I watch her throw the whiskey back with practiced ease, her throat working as she swallows. The liquor burns its way down my own throat, but it does nothing to cool the fire she’s ignited in me.

She sets the empty glass on the coffee table, and I do the same. The silence stretches between us, thick and loaded. I want to take her into my room. I want to strip that purple dress from her body and lay her across my bed. I want to kiss every scar, every graft, every inch of damaged skin until she forgets that anything in this world has ever hurt her.

I rub my hands on my thighs, the leather of my cut rustling with the movement.

“Still hurt?” I ask, my voice rough.

“A little,” she admits.

She shifts on the couch, her fingers still pressing into the muscle behind her knee.