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I need to see her as she is now.

A beautiful, sexy, vibrant thirty-one-year old woman who’s lived and suffered.

And survived.

Her body has changed. The bones of her collar and hips stick out prominently. Her stomach is harder now, and there’s a harsh line that looks like a muscle running down her center. It starts at her full breasts and snakes all the way down to her stomach.

She’s got scars skittering across her. Scars on her hands and legs, on her stomach, on her thighs.

But curiously, her face is free of them.

I grit my teeth as the reason comes to me instantly.

Tristan wouldn’t have wanted to mar her beauty. Men like him pride themselves on appearances. Who cares about the brutality he’s inflicted on her body, so long as society sees her pretty face?

I’m gonna kill that motherfucker.

And I hope that wherever he is right now, some sixth sense warns him of his impending death.

I want him to spend his last few days of life looking over his shoulder, feeling uncertain and nervous. I want the weight of it to grow until the fear starts to strangle him.

That’s when I’ll appear.

“Cillian,” Saoirse whispers, pulling me back to the moment.

I force Tristan out of my thoughts.

Fuck him. He’s not going to take this moment from me.

There’s only Saoirse and me in this room.

And I’m going to fuck his memory right out of her.

“You are breathtaking,” I tell her in a hushed voice.

She starts to say something, but fuck words. The time for conversation has passed.

This is about doing what I haven’t been able to do since I was a teenager—touching the woman I love.

I move forward. My lips fall onto hers and the magic of our earlier kiss is ignited again.

The same fire, the same passion, the same burning desire for each other.

It’s all there.

There are some things that can’t be faked.

She parts her lips and I slip my tongue inside. I kiss her until her lips are raw and her breath is coming in little shuddering bursts.

Then I twist my fingers into the waistband of her panties and pull them down.

A familiar sense of déjà vu overcomes me. The temptation to retreat thirteen years into the past like I’ve done so, so many times.

Except now, I have no desire to go back there.

Because for once, the present is so much more appealing.

Once she’s naked, she pulls my shirt off, her eyes trailing over my body with an intensity that makes me feel like she’s touching me.


Tags: Nicole Fox Kovalyov Bratva Erotic