Page 92 of Stolen Rebel

He looms over me, bracing his weight on his forearms. He’s breathing just as hard. “That’s two.”

A nondescript sound bursts from the back of my throat. The corner of his mouth lifts. “You ready for number three?”

Is he proving a point? It doesn’t feel like he’s trying to break me, but rather that he’s trying to keep me.

His eyes lock onto mine, flaring with something white-hot as he tips his head to the side. “Now, now. That’s not my Rebel at all. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Soaking into your expensive fucking rug.” My voice is hoarse, my breathing still broken. “So much adventure.” I smirk at him.

There’s no smugness in his eyes, no ego, just certainty. This man is going to ruin me. He slides his fingers inside me, working my G-spot as he sucks on my swollen and sensitive clit, switching between flicking and licking and sucking, whipping me into a frenzy of need. It’s no time at all before my hips roll, lifting my pussy to his face, my back arching, and my fingers sinking into his hair as I claw at his scalp. “Don’t stop.”

That was the wrong thing to say. He chuckles against my pussy then pulls back. “Thought you weren’t ready for number three?” His fingers don’t stop pulsing against my inside walls, the rhythm enough to keep me teetering.

“Please, Liam.”

I reach for his head, to push him back between my legs, to make him take away the ache and let me come.

“Please what?”

“Please just let me come.”

The only answer he gives is putting his tongue back where it belongs, and he laps at my clit like it’s his fucking job. I ride his face, holding tight to his hair so he doesn’t edge me again, and when I scream through my third orgasm, it’s his name on my lips.

“Five years.” He breathes against my sweat-slicked skin. “Five fucking years.” He kisses my inner thigh with gentle sweeps of his lips. “You’re lucky I’m not making you come three thousand times, Rebel.”

He’s joking, right?

Aftershocks move through me, my muscles twitching as they soften. I’m breathless. My hair’s stuck to my sweaty skin. Surely, now I get his dick, right? Or is this how I die? By an orgasm overdose at the hand of a mafia prince?

I can’t wait. I grip his hair in my fist and tug until he moves. As he slides up my body, I palm my hands up his back, pulling him down until our mouths meet again. His kiss is hungry, his cock rod-stiff against me. And when I wrap my legs around him and drag him closer, it’s not about Brian or whether he made me come.

It’s about us.

It’s about the way Liam says my nickname like it belongs to him. Like I belong to him. Because I do. I always fucking have.

It’s about the way he looks at me like I am the only thing in this world worth fighting for, like he’d burn it all to ash if it meant he could get back the time we spent apart.

He drags his cock through my folds. Our moans echo around the library, embarrassingly loud enough that the books would turn away if they could. I scratch at his neck, pulling him close to make him keep kissing me as he eases himself inside.

His forehead drops to mine for half a second, breath shuddering out of him like he’s bracing himself. “I almost lost you.” His quiet voice breaks. I’ve never seen him so raw, so vulnerable, so cracked wide open and baring his soul to me. I never want to see that pain in his eyes again.

My body aches for him. No number of orgasms makes up for the emptiness, the fact I need him to fill me. When he’s fully seated, my body softens again, like we’re both exactly where we belong, tangled up on the rug with the dying embers of the fire flickering beside us.

He stills, his eyes locked on mine like he doesn’t want this moment to end. I don’t blame him because I don’t either. He fills me so fucking perfectly, like his dick was made just for me.

Sweeping my hair off my face, he grazes my cheeks with his thumbs. “Do you know how fucking beautiful you are? How strong?” He presses his lips to mine. “How brave?”

The familiar burn is back in my eyes, but I refuse to cry while his dick’s buried inside me. When was the last time someone called me beautiful or strong or brave?

“You survived without me.” His voice is rough. “But you don’t have to anymore. You’re home.”

I always thought the homesickness I felt when I lived in England was for a place, but it wasn’t.

It was for a person. Him. The other half of my soul.

We move in tandem, our breaths intertwining as he sinks deeper and deeper inside me, connecting on a level I’ve never experienced with anyone other than him.

He moves like if he holds me tightly enough, thrusts deep enough, kisses me long enough, touches every single piece of me inside and out, he might be able to erase five long and lonely years in a single night.