“That’s my girl,” I said, nipping at the sensitive skin of her neck.
I fucked her with my fingers, starting slow and building speed. I held her gaze with an obsessive desire to watch the orgasm I gave her ruin her. But I needed something more. I needed to taste her.
She whimpered when I dropped to my knees. The whimper became a low moan when I pressed my mouth between her legs.
“Ride my hand, Naomi. Ride it while I make you come. Remember who you are. What you deserve.”
It was the last order I gave, because my tongue was busy teasing circles over her sensitive clit. She tasted like heaven as she bucked against my face.
My dick throbbed behind my zipper with a need so intense I didn’t recognize it. Mine. I wanted to claim her, to make her mine so assholes knew they didn’t have a chance.
“Knox,” she whimpered, and I felt the clutch and pull of her around my fingers. It was fucking beautiful.
“That’s right, baby,” I murmured. “Feel me in you.”
I sucked gently while working the swollen bud with my tongue.
She let out a wrenching moan, and I felt her come apart around my fingers. She was a miracle. A work of art. And no one deserved her. Not Warner. Not even me.
But not deserving something wasn’t going to stop me from taking.
The waves broke. The clenching became a languid flutter, and still my cock ached. I wanted to thrust into her and feel the echoes of her orgasm on my shaft.
Then she was pulling me to my feet, and her fingers were at my belt. My palms went to the door as she reverently released my erection, and she sank to her knees.
“You don’t have to do this, Naomi.” My whisper was harsh with need.
“I want to.”
Her lips were parted. I felt her hot breath on my thigh, and my cock jerked. She made an approving noise, and before I could say or do anything, those perfect pink lips were parting, and my tip disappeared between them.
It was like a lightning strike.
My last coherent thought was that the only thing that saved Warner Fuckface from the beating of his life was Naomi’s perfect mouth on my cock.
THIRTY-SIX
THE BREAK-IN
Knox
Nash yawned and scraped a hand over his face. He was sitting at his dining table in sweat pants. His usually clean-shaven mug had the beginnings of a beard.
“Look, I told you. I don’t remember jack shit from the shooting. I don’t even remember pulling the car over.”
It was after two a.m., and Lucian had insisted we put our heads together on the situations.
I flipped my phone over to see if Naomi had texted me yet. She was supposed to text as soon as she got home. After the night she’d had, I felt unsettled letting her drive home by herself. But Lucian was insistent that we needed to talk to Nash.
“Is that normal? Not remembering?” I asked.
Nash shrugged with his good shoulder. “How the fuck should I know? This is the first time I got shot.”
He was being flippant, but there were shadows under his eyes that had nothing to do with the time of night.
Lucian, on the other hand, looked as if he was just hitting his stride. He was in what was left of another expensive suit. His tie and jacket hung over the back of Nash’s couch. Even as a kid, he’d slept short and light. Every sleepover we’d ever had, he’d been the last to fall asleep and the first to wake. We never talked about what demons kept him up at night. We didn’t have to.
“We need the dashcam footage,” Lucian said. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, a glass of bourbon in his hand.