Page 75 of Stolen Rebel

“Liam!” Patrick hammers on the door. “Stop fucking your woman and get your arse downstairs. You’re needed.”

“Busy,” I snap back.

“Oh, I know. I fucking heard. I told you five minutes. That’s not a request. It’s an order.”

Boots sound on the stairs. I let out a string of curses. Rowan, pink with post-orgasmic glow, laughs. “Cockblocked by your brother.”

I point a finger at her. “Don’t fucking move. Don’t put your pajamas back on. In fact, take off the top. And don’t go anywhere.”

She’s in the middle of pulling the top over her head when I tear myself away. Somebody better be dying.

No one was dying. If I didn’t know better, I’d say my brother was trying to cockblock me. All he’s done is delay the inevitable—including the not-so-small matter of cluing Rowan in on the truth about the murder she thinks she saw.

As I head back upstairs, I have every intention of telling her as soon as I open the door.

Until I do.

She’s standing in the middle of the room wearing the burgundy dress. The one she wore the last time we fucked, right before she left me. The one I used as a test in what feels like a million years ago but was, in fact, only eight days ago.

My heartbeat pounds, a torrent of blood thundering in my ears. “Fuck me.”

Rowan grins. “That’s the spirit.”

It’s the consent I needed. I pounce. She squeals when I hoist her in the air, jamming her back against the wall. I crush my mouth to hers. Our teeth clash, our tongues duel. She claws at my hair, digs her fingernails into my scalp.

Shudders of pleasure ricochet up my spine as I grind against her, the silk fabric bunching between us. Every rational thought I had about confession… gone. There’s only this. Only us. Only her breath and my breath, her heart and my heart, reconnecting after a lifetime apart.

“Liam.” My name comes out breathless, and something primal roars to the surface.

I yank the dress up her thighs, my hands rough, impatient. Five years. Five fucking years without her in my life, in my bed. I can’t think straight. There’s only want, need, a wild animal claiming his mate.

I fumble with my belt, cursing under my breath when my hands won’t cooperate.

“Help me out here,” I mutter, and she laughs. Her fingers join mine and, in seconds, she’s made quick work of the buckle.

“Can’t wait.”

“Don’t wait,” she whispers. “I’m still wet. I’ve been waiting for you.”

I groan, pulling out my cock. The second I’m free, I shift her higher up the wall and line myself up. Our eyes lock.

“Tell me if⁠—”

“Liam. For God’s sake, just fuck me.”

My last thread of control snaps. I thrust into her, deep, and the sound she makes, half gasp, half cry, rewires my brain. The agony of the last five years subsides.

Mine.

Not his. Never his. Mine.

I set a brutal pace, driven by five years of longing, of rage, of bitter hurt. Five years of missing her, of hating her, of hating myself for not being good enough. The wall takes the impact of each thrust. She burrows beneath my shirt, her nails raking down my back. Probably drawing blood. Good. I want to bleed for her. Need to. Need the marks to prove that this is real. That I’m not dreaming.

“God, yes.” She tips her head back, exposing her throat. I bite down on her neck, not to hurt her, but to mark her. She clenches around me.

Too much. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything.

Her breathing turns ragged, muscles tensing. She’s close.