“Don’t come. Not yet,” he ordered, thrusting inside me with one slippery impale. “Do. Not. Come.”
I stopped cataloguing how my blood boiled, how my skin itched, and how my mind sang for freedom. I focused only on the thickness stretching me. The overwhelming delight of accepting my soul mate into my body.
He was what I craved. His tongue had been a perfect entrée, but this … this was the main course and dessert all in one.
Keeping me pinned against him, he rocked into me, rolling me from my side onto my stomach. My arms splayed out. I moaned, biting a pillow as he rode me. His thrusts were slow, then quick, gathering speed faster and faster.
“God, you feel amazing,” he grunted. One hand clamped on my hip, keeping me imprisoned beneath him, while the other wrapped around my nape.
The primitive way he held me undid the floodgates and I cried out louder and louder with every thrust. I couldn’t move. I could only take what he gave. Every stroke sent me higher into the spindling promise.
His teeth razored my ear. His breath scalded my skin. “Come. I need you to come.” He thrust hard. “Now, Cleo.” His voice was no longer controlled.
His divine rock gave me no room to argue. I was trapped. He was above me, around me, inside me. He was me. I was him.
My orgasm would be his. We would share our release in some cosmically charged way.
His hand drifted down my front and pinched my clit. “I said I need you to come.”
I moaned as his fingers rubbed in perfect circles, blending in empathy with his rapid pace.
“Oh, God. Yes, don’t stop.” My body gave up trying to make sense of where to rock or flow. I stopped trying to hold off and gave myself over to the inevitable combustion.
I screamed as an intense orgasm sliced through my body. My core clenched with devastating pressure. The ship I’d become destroyed itself over and over again, splintering against the battering of his storm.
It was staggering. It was paralyzing.
I turned into a puddle of delirium.
Arthur groaned, “Goddammit!” His rhythm lost its perfection and he slipped from making love to fucking me ruthlessly.
My orgasm only strengthened and continued. I crashed harder knowing that even as he used me, he worshipped me. His violence and craving blazed with truth.
“Fuck, yes.” His release erupted deep inside me. His pleasure resounding in my ears.
On and on, he spilled inside and I took every drop. I was no longer a ship floating on his tide, but drowned and consumed in his wake.
By the time we opened our eyes, we were both sticky with sweat and overheating in the patch of sunlight streaming through the window.
Slowly, we uncramped our toes and fell apart with a boneless sigh.
“I believe you,” I mumbled. “Ten thousand times, I believe you.”
He chuckled, tucking me into his side. His warmth spooned me and I’d never been so safe or contented. “Finally.” He nuzzled behind my ear. “Things are going to be wonderful. You’ll see. Once I’ve taken vengeance and things are dealt with, it will all be over.”
A shadow fell over my heart that no amount of sunshine or love could diminish. Would it, though? Would we find a happy balance? Would his headaches fade and leave him unharmed?
My eyes fell on the silver thread of PROPERTY OF KILL on my jacket tossed on the floor. It glittered in the sunlight. I stroked his forearm still wrapped around my chest. “I hope so, Art. I truly do.”
“This is our fresh start, Buttercup. You’ll see.”
My mind darted back to the night I’d arrived. The battle, the trafficking. Our reunion hadn’t been ideal but we’d made it work. We would make whatever the future delivered work, too.
“I’m so in love with you, Art.”
He sucked in a breath, pressing a kiss on my temple. “The same for me, Cleo. I’ve always loved you and I always will.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kill
What was I supposed to do?
I’d finally come of age to be inducted into the Club. I’d sworn my oath, wore my cut, and promised to obey Thorn Price as my president. A party had been thrown in my honor. Yet later, once the men had passed out from drunkenness, my father had reminded me of one important clause. The Club came first. The Club was my life. But I was the loophole because my father was blood and demanded ultimate fealty—even over my president. —Kill, age sixteen
“Are they here?”
Grasshopper looked up as I strode into the Clubhouse. I’d had a hell of a time getting Cleo to stay behind, but I’d finally been able to reassure her enough that I needed to complete some business and it would be boring as fuck.
I’d lied to keep her behind.
Having her in my life was personified ecstasy but I couldn’t have her knowing everything.
Even though you promised you would tell her.
Scowling, I shoved those thoughts away. She’d begged to come with me, but tough luck.
I knew she wanted to keep an eye on me with my headaches, but this was a part of my life where I didn’t want her.
Revenge.
It was a lonely obsession. And should remain a lonely obsession.
She didn’t understand, couldn’t contemplate the overwhelming drive to make my father pay. She seemed content to let fate or karma deal with him—even after everything he’d done.
She didn’t believe in retribution or taking payment for past sins.
But I do.
Wholeheartedly, and luckily, so did Wallstreet and Pure Corruption.