Scorpion
: Chapter 11

It’s pretty.

Too pretty.

That word and I are no longer acquainted. It feels wrong to use it, let alone wear the lie.

Cold sweat snakes down my spine at the thought of seeing Mathijs. I don’t regret what we did in the woods two days ago. But it was inevitable that something would shift between us after taking the plunge. I don’t know where to go from here, and… I don’t think I can stay here anymore.

When I saw him yesterday, he practically had a skip in his step. This afternoon he was basically wearing heart-eyed sunglasses. It made my heart double in size and brought back feelings of hope and contentment. Maybe there is something good in store for me. Maybe I’ve gotten over my fears. Maybe I’m the same person I was before everything blew up.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

But everything good comes crashing down.

I stare at the text from Mathijs again.

Mathijs: There’s a dress for you in front of your door. Wear it. I need you to accompany me to a dinner date tonight.

Not accompany him as his date.

Not just accompany him to a meeting.

He’s getting me dressed up so I can sit there and watch him have his date. The pit in my stomach makes me nauseous. This is the very last thing I expected from him, and I feel so fucking stupid for letting him in when he never intended on staying. Never in a million years did I think he would be capable of such a cruel thing. He’s changed in a way that I don’t like.

Jesus Christ, he fucked me in the middle of the woods just two damn days ago. Now he’s gallivanting around, parading another woman in front of me?

We may not be exclusive anymore but I sure as shit don’t deserve this. The text and this dress are reminders that I’m the damaged help. I’m a hired gun. An easy lay. Nothing more.

I have never felt so dehumanized before. Part of me wants to hurt him for hurting me. The other part is saying that this was always how it was meant to be, and that I deserve this pain. The last part—the practical part—is saying that this is it. I need to stay professional and it’s my fault for getting my emotions involved.

Really, I should never have let it get this far. The second he put his hand on me, I should have drawn the line. Now look where it’s gotten me. Accompanying my ex to his motherfucking date when I had his come dripping out of me less than forty-eight hours ago.

I just need to be here for another month, then I’ll be able to leave and get a job in another city. Forget all about the past few months working for him, and how it’s made me feel more like a living, breathing human.

So I don’t hate him for the reminder when his charity is the main reason I’ve been getting out of bed in the morning lately.

One night of watching him wine and dine another woman won’t kill me. And if he sends me a midnight message asking if I feel like hanging out? I’ll deal with it. Professionalism will be my middle name. I’ve been through a hell of a lot worse.

Swallowing my pride, I put on the ridiculously pretty forest-green outfit Mathijs left for me. It’s the most impractical getup he could ever get his bodyguard to wear. There’s zero way I could put up a good fight in it.

It’s a struggle to zip up the satin bandeau by myself, but the chiffon wrap skirt is easy enough to work out. The final article of clothing is another piece of chiffon fabric that I can’t work out. This entire outfit has to cost at least a weeks’ salary. There’s intricate beading all over it and heavy gold bangles, earrings, and arm cuffs that suffocate my biceps and make me look somewhere north of a million bucks.

I slip my arm through the cutout and pull the other side over my head so the fabric drapes across my body from one shoulder, displaying the sun tattooed on my shoulder and the tiger crawling down my forearm.

What kind of establishment are we going to that requires this level of grandeur? I look more like I’m going to a ball than a dinner I’m playing security at. This dress is hardly practical if I have to chase someone down. Honestly, how in the fuck does he expect me to ride a bike in this dress?

I throw on some makeup, strap a gun and a knife to my thigh, then hide another in the matching gold purse. Here’s to hoping that there won’t be any pat downs where we’re going. I’m not on board with guarding from a distance while weaponless, and I might throw up if I have to be close by while he schmoozes another woman. Here’s to also hoping that I can get a sweet middle.

Why was there no warning for our team to scope out the place first?

Why the hell does he need me to be there while he flirts up some woman who, by all accounts, was made for this type of world? Maybe she’s going to be my future employer.

Grinding my teeth, I throw on my coat and try not to stomp up to the main house in my heels. Heels. Is he kidding me?

Fuck this.

I should suggest that this is a task Sergei would be more suitable to because I can’t stand there and watch—no. I can do this. I’m a professional. I survived a goddamn bomb that killed my best friend, then lost my sister a couple of days later. I lost my sister and best friend in the same week.

This? It’s nothing. Nothing.

I school my expression and will my body to relax, even though the only mode of transport will be the SUV, just to make matters abundantly worse than they already are. There’s no use wasting energy convincing myself that maybe we’d take a helicopter to the destination, or something equally as absurd. My only hope is to convince myself that I’m not back there.

The car isn’t going to explode.

No one is going to die.

TJ can’t die again.

Gaya is already gone.

I’ll be fine.

I make eye contact with Sergei as soon as I enter the foyer to ascend the stairs to Mathijs’s office.

“Outside,” is all the head of security says.

Swallowing the building panic, I nod at the door. I would take the juvenile jealousy and disappointment over this bone-deep fear clawing through my soul. I keep repeating the useless assurances to myself as I climb down the front steps toward the convoy. My knees wobble with the closing distance, but the call of my name makes me stop and change course toward Mathijs.

My mind flashes with memories of our time in the forest, and an ache starts in my core.

He’s glowing. He has been since we… rekindled. His smile is so bright, I almost stumble back from the shock. Dressed in a suit that makes him look straight out of a magazine, every inch of him is styled to utter perfection. Every strand of hair is exactly where it’s meant to be. I always thought that he’s the most attractive man that I’ve ever laid my eyes on. Seeing him beam the way he is now… no one will ever compare. Whatever beauty he has is rooted inside him as well.

But he isn’t mine.

Mathijs smirks knowingly as he stands next to the neon green Bugatti.

I stare at it for a moment in an attempt to work out why it’s out of the garage. The realization makes me glare at him.

He’s so damn hard to keep alive.

“As your security, I would advise against driving in this vehicle. Separately. Anyone could corner you,” I say.

“Surely they have to catch me first.”

“The windows—”

“Are bulletproof.”

“You could be followed.”

“I will be followed.” He points to the four SUVs behind us.

There’s no winning this argument. He’s still the boss and he makes the final decision. Even if it means it might end up with him killed. Maybe I’ll drag Sergei into this discussion so he can be the voice of reason. I nod and move to turn around, but pause.

“Zalak.”

I look over my shoulder and raise a brow at him just as he holds the passenger door open. “How are you meant to protect me if you’re in another car?”

My stomach convulses at the prospect of getting into a car, but the fear dissipates when I eye the Bugatti.

It’s… it isn’t raising my hackles. The car is so small and low to the ground that my brain isn’t reconciling the vehicle in front of me to the one I almost died in. The neon color removes the connection to the event, and any possibility that it might be one in the same as an armored car. This seems more like a scene from a movie than a memory.

I clear my throat and thank him as I take my seat in the car.

Nothing. No cold sweats. No shaking.

He closes the door behind me. My heart hammers as I take in the interior. Still nothing. It’s like I’m willing the panic to take hold, but it never does. The air doesn’t grow thinner. My skin doesn’t burn. There’s no ringing in my ears.

I’m… I’m okay.

Jesus fucking Christ, I’m actually alright.

I could almost laugh at the thought. I’m inside a car, and I’m fine. Nothing is happening to me. There’s no bomb about to hit this tin can. I could almost kiss Mathijs for this.

The beast purrs awake and my lips stretch into the slightest smile. I’m doing it. I’m actually fucking doing it. Mathijs takes his seat, and I repress the urge to tell him I haven’t stepped foot into something other than a bus, jet, or a limo since I touched down back in the US. Now here I am, sitting in the front seat of a car, dressed up, sober, and with an actual job.

Wherever Gaya and TJ are, they better be having a cold one for me.

Mathijs winks at me like he’s silently celebrating with me. There’s barely a moment of hesitation before he speeds down to the end of the drive, forgetting all about his security detail. My hand automatically drops to the door handle—not for show. He drives like a lunatic. It’s a stretch to say he “looked” both ways before tearing onto the road.

“You’re a liability,” I mutter.

He turns toward me, lips splitting into a boyish grin as he drives us single-handedly. “I have to keep my men on their toes.”

“Eyes on the road,” I snap. “I’m having a hard time protecting you from yourself.” He chuckles and does as he’s told, but before he can respond, I ask the burning questions. “Where are we going?”

“To a dinner.”

“Where?”

“A restaurant.”

I glare at his profile. “Where, Mathijs?”

He sighs and smiles wider as if the thought of our destination makes him excited. My gut sours, putting a lid on whatever joy I felt moments before.

“A Michelin-star restaurant with a six-month waitlist. I have a private room booked.”

So he can have privacy with his date.

I roll down the windows to let the cool air circulate through the two-seater car. His date might be sitting in this very spot a couple hours from now, and I’ll be forced to replace my way back.

“Who are you meeting?”

“You’ll see.”

My stomach lurches when we go around a bend. Or maybe it’s because I haven’t seen him so at ease since I started working for him. There’s no tension lining his shoulders. The creases around his eyes are from age rather than concern. He’s in his element, and I wish I could just blame it on the exhilaration from racing through the city.

He’s meeting another woman and he’s going to make me watch.

Maybe I’d handle this a whole lot better if he told me the whole purpose of this meeting is to get information regarding Goldchild. That this is all a ruse. But neither of those things are true and it kills me.

The bright lights of the restaurant loom ahead, and I scan the area, noting the other establishments dotted along the street, and the many patrons who’ve decided to eat out on a Thursday night. It’s an upscale area of town, and though I spot some security around, I’d wager that none of them will be of any use if things go south—which is entirely possible, since this area is known for its criminal underbelly: illegal gambling rings, Mafia-owned restaurants, and a club rumored to be owned by the Bratva. It’s a shitshow waiting to happen.

I glance behind us, knowing without looking that none of Mathijs’s men will be near because we drove two times the speed limit to get here.

Great. I’m on my own. The only leg up I have is the fact that I look more like his date than someone who’s here to keep watch over someone. A-plus for blending in, I guess.

Mathijs pulls up in front of the valet, and he runs around to open my door before the attendant can do it. He offers me his hand, and I hesitate before accepting it. He passes the key along, then places his hand on my lower back to steer me toward the host.

“This isn’t a good look if you’re on a date,” I whisper just as we’re about to reach the front desk.

“Oh no,” he says with faux sadness. “My date can’t come. I guess you’ll have to keep me company instead.”

My lips part and heat colors my skin. He… That little shit.

“There was never any date, was there?”

He moves behind me to remove my coat once we reach the front desk, then hands the jacket to the host to put away. Mathijs circles me, giving me his full attention, and my cheeks heat under his hungry stare and from all the spiraling I’ve done this afternoon. Of course he would never have done something like that to me. I should have had faith in him.

But in my defense, he acted like a cryptic asshole.

His eyes darken when they land on mine, then he roves over the rest of me. The look of pure adoration and need that paints his features has my hairs standing on end. It’s the type of stare that tells me tonight is full of promises.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you not my date? You came here with me. And you made yourself absolutely…” My heart stutters as he trails a single finger along my jaw and leans closer to my ear. “Delectable. Just for me.”

The air sucks out of me as he pulls away and takes my hand in his to lead us in the direction of the private room. I’m too gobsmacked by the situation to remember that I’m still on the clock. Technically. I don’t notice any of the people around us or the number of exits in the room or any blind spots. My focus is solely on him and the easy smile he wears.

First, I rode in a car without issue. Now, I’m having a date. With Mathijs. While carrying several weapons. Ten years after I said goodbye to him. Those aren’t sentences I thought I’d ever string together.

Ever the gentleman, he pulls out a chair for me and I finally take in the room we have all to ourselves. The lack of cameras is the first thing I notice. Renaissance paintings hang on the mahogany walls, and there are flower arrangements and statues sitting atop marble pedestals. In the middle of it all is our rectangular table, the white tablecloth, and the fine china.

The murmurings of patrons can only just be heard above the strings playing through the room. Based on the volume difference between the main dining area and ours, I’d say some soundproofing is at play.

Mathijs orders us a bottle of wine while I scrutinize the single exit in and out of the room. I won’t pretend to know whether what he ordered is white or red, and where on the pH scale it might sit. His mom used to tell me all about the various undertones, acidity, and how to make it. Not that I remember any of it. At the ripe age of sixteen, she’d sit me down to do tastings and she’d let me have just enough to get tipsy. No one was any wiser when I got home.

The waiter leaves after taking our meal orders and serving our drinks, so the only two souls in this room are him and I. The quiet amplifies until it’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to look at him and see how at ease he is on his chair, lounging back like nothing could faze him. His clothes hug his lean frame, and pull taut when he reaches for the glass.

Mathijs’s stare is on me, so heated I’m pretty sure he’s undressed me without laying a hand on me.

I chew on my bottom lip. This is too soon, right? Too much? He knows what’s wrong with me, and he hasn’t run for the hills. That’s a sign that I can just go along with this and see where this leads, right?

We crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed, and he’s taking us for a plunge. I’ve come a long way, but I don’t know how ready I am to commit when I’ve only just found my footing again—literally and figuratively.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, brows furrowing.

Taking a less than healthy gulp of wine to clear my throat, I steel my spine to face him. “We’re moving quickly.”

“My come was dripping out of your pussy two days ago. I’d call this catching up.”

Lord, give me strength. Red flushes my skin, but I keep my composure, clutching the stem of the wineglass. “You never asked me if I wanted to go to dinner with you. What makes a date a date is both people agree and are aware it’s happening.”

Would I have agreed if he asked? Probably not. I’m sure I would have made some excuse about security risks with Goldchild, and beat around the bush about the real reason I’m resisting. I’m not ready—which, if I’m being truthful, I have no idea what that looks like.

“I wholeheartedly agree.” His lips tip to one side in a cocky smirk. “That’s why I haven’t labeled all the other times we’ve had dinner together as a ‘date,’ and why you were given prior warning this time. See, you’re even all dressed up for it.”

I blink. “You told me I was accompanying you to a date.”

“Point and case; I told you.” He smirks.

“You gave me this dress and told me to wear it.”

“Ah yes. You have never denied an order.”

“Within reason, I will. I was assuming I was getting appropriately dressed for an occasion within my job description.”

Mathijs arches a brow. “Are you implying that I could get a bag packed and you’d hop on a plane and accompany me to Costa Rica? Bikinis, short skirts, and summer dresses.”

No. That’s definitely not what I’m implying. Outside of a professional setting at least. “So long as the correct security measures are in place and every detail is planned appropriately.”

He sighs. “You’re no fun. Where’s your spontaneity?”

“Your impulsiveness and recklessness have left you without a full security detail.”

“Untrue.” He sips his wine and nods toward my purse. “You’re armed.”

“Am I your guard or your date?”

“You’re murderous, and stunning. You could be neither of those things and still kill a man with your bare hands. So take your pick. Either way, you’re coming home with me tonight.”

I huff. “We live on the same property, Mathijs. It doesn’t count.”

The waiter returns with our food and we thank him. I quietly dig into the meal I would have preferred takeout over. I subtly watch him chewing away like he’s deep in thought—which is never a good thing.

Back when we were younger, that look meant that he was about to stir trouble or say something he shouldn’t. Usually both.

I throw back more expensive wine that’s completely wasted on me, only to freeze when he pushes his cutlery to the side so the space in front of him is bare.

Definitely not good.

“Perhaps I’ll explain this a different way—and you’ll have to excuse my language,” he says with an air of professionalism I’m unused to. “I am about to eat a four-hundred-dollar, world-renowned meal, when I’d rather have you splayed out on the table with my head between your thighs because I am utterly ravished. We were never done. We were always meant to come back to each other. So you can decide whether you’re here for work or pleasure; just know that the latter will be on the table tonight.” He nods to my plate. “So, Lieverd, eat. I have no intention of ordering dessert.”

I’m at a loss for words. A blaze of fire scorches a path across my skin. An ache forms between my legs at the memory of having him inside of me. Knowing that a repeat of those events is on the menu only drenches me to the point I have to shift in my seat to get some much needed friction.

“Is that confidence, self-assurance, or blatant entitlement?” I manage to pull myself together to reply.

“I assure you, I understand the word no in twenty-three different languages. You want honesty, I’ll give you honesty. We have both come too far to speak in riddles. You’re mine. I’m yours. That’s how it was before, and how it is tonight, tomorrow, and every day after that. Now”—he pushes a small platter toward me—“are these oysters going to waste tonight?”

I don’t answer. My breath comes out harsh and uneven as I eye the food between us. Every rule of etiquette is telling me to say thank you, but for both of our sakes, we should stop it now. The last thing he needs is more baggage, and the last thing I need is to risk falling again when I don’t feel solid yet.

But I’m a selfish woman. Lying in that clearing with him inside me was the first time I felt truly alive. It was like I finally became one with my senses. I could smell the crisp air, hear the chipper of birds, and feel the damp earth beneath me. I wasn’t just aware of all of it—I appreciated life. I want that again. I’ll deal with the fallout that comes later. Tonight, I want a chance to feel human again.

I keep darting my eyes between the porcelain and Mathijs’s hypnotic green eyes. Before I can make a decision, Mathijs’s voice comes out, deep and filled with the type of dark desire that makes a woman fall onto her knees.

“Take out your gun, Zalak.”

My gaze snaps up to his. “What?”

He motions to my purse. “Your gun. Put it on the table.”

I hesitate for a moment before doing as he says. There’s a barely audible thud when the handgun hits the wooden table. Something about the command weaves threads of desire with my blood.

He shrugs off his jacket, loosens his tie, then rolls the sleeves of his white top up to his elbows.

“Dismantle it.”

Rationally, I know I should ask questions. Maybe even refuse to do it because of the risks we face. But my racing pulse dares to do nothing of the sort. I do exactly as he says. I lay out each piece on the table and wait for the next command.

“Put it back together without the magazine.”

This time, I frown but comply, shifting in my seat to generate any kind of pressure. Lust is a living, breathing entity inside of my veins. It turns everything into various shades of red.

“Make sure there are no bullets in there, darling. I’m going to fuck you with it.”

My lips part. That’s… No, he didn’t mean that, right?

Mathijs leans back in the chair and places his hands on either side of the armrest as if he were a king, and I was one of his loyal subjects ready to serve his every whim. There’s only just enough room between him and the table.

Shuddering, I double check there’s nothing inside the chamber so there’s no chance of any kind of misfire.

His gaze drops to the empty space on the table in front of him. “Sit and spread your legs for me.”

A tremor works its way through my limbs as I cautiously rise to my feet and stalk toward him. He watches me like I’m the prey and he’s the real predator among us. Green eyes drop to my lips when I lick them. They blow out into an endless void of black as my fingers travel down to my thighs to inch the skirt up to allow me enough movement to part my legs.

The cutlery clatters when I make it to the edge of the table and place my feet on his armrest, just beneath his hands. Slowly, I replace the courage to part my knees and let the gauzy fabric fall back to give him a clear view. My breathing stutters from the heat of his gaze, while his stops altogether.

His hands follow the undersides of my legs, up to my hips, before grabbing the tactical knife strapped to my thigh. I gasp when the cold metal caresses my hot skin right before the thin material of my panties rip apart with the slightest tug of the blade.

From this angle, I can see the evidence of my arousal dripping from me and onto the table. The sound of approval that comes from him sends a bolt of warmth unfurling around my heart. “You look good enough to eat, Lieverd.”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek when he trails his fingers along the seams of my inner thighs, making my legs quiver and fight to snap close. My eyelids grow heavy, and I grip the tablecloth to stop myself from pushing my hips closer to him when he leans down and places a kiss to the inside of my knee. He doesn’t need to know how desperate I am for him.

“Do you know how long I’ve been starving?”

Mathijs drags his lips halfway up my thigh, then kisses a path to my core, only to pause an inch away from where I need him most. A needy whimper pulls out of me because his promise feels too good, and I’m losing control over my frayed edges.

“A man should never be left unfed for so long,” he rasps.

His hot breath fans over my center, and I give up trying to stop myself from angling my body to where I want him to go. I throw my head back with a moan when he licks the full length of my pussy. Once. Like he’s playing with his food.

“We can get… creative. You don’t want to know all the ways I’ve been imagining you.”

A string of curses flies past my lips when his mouth returns to where I’m aching the most. His tongue flicks out, lapping at me. From the way his fingers dig into the meat that hugs my curves to the way his eyes bore up at me like I had it all wrong earlier.

I am not his loyal subject: he’s mine.

Soft moans mix with the string music, and my desire warms the air around while he consumes me so completely, it’s hard to believe I haven’t become a corpse.

Mathijs’s tongue moves side to side over my clit, winding the muscles in my core tighter like I could combust at any second. He pulls away too soon, wearing the evidence of my arousal on his face.

“I’m a respectable man, darling,” he says, voice hoarse like he’s barely holding on. “And you make me want to do things to you that will make me lose that title.”

A groan builds in the back of my throat when he slips two fingers inside of me and curls them. Stars burst behind my vision and the world tips on its axis.

“Your gun,” he rasps.

I fumble behind me until my hand lands on the weapon. I pass it to him faster than necessary, then lean back in an open invitation for him to do whatever the hell he wants as long as he can get rid of the soul-consuming ache building within me.

Mathijs removes his fingers to replace them with the cool tip of the gun. If I hadn’t already been discharged from the military, they sure as shit would discharge me now. My eyes gloss over at the hard intrusion, but I spread my legs wider to welcome it deeper, and he watches every one of my reactions with the intensity of someone whose life depends on the very act.

Inch by inch, he slides it further inside me, slowly spinning it so the trigger guard pushes against my clit for added stimulation. Moisture glistens on the weapon as he draws it out of me, then pushes it back in with agonizingly slow speed. The stretch adds to the pure bliss coursing through my veins. I’m going to come if he keeps this up.

“Look at me or I’ll stop.”

I avert my bleary gaze up to his ungodly expression, which is an unholy mixture of languish, desperation, frustration, and lust. Seeing him out of sorts because of me has my toes curling with self-satisfaction. He’s just as helpless to this pull as I am.

Before I can make another sound, his lips descend on mine, capturing me in the type of kiss I thought was only possible in dreams. I meet him with the same fervor and reverent worship. Like he said, I am his. I just don’t know how to be.

If we were crossing a line two days ago, we’re jumping straight off a cliff tonight. This is a point of no return. Acceptance. Whatever hell we’re in, we’re agreeing to be in it together. Every dark, depraved skeleton buried in the recesses of our minds are to be held by each other. Somehow, someway. It’s just us.

The logical part of me is jumping up and down about my job. I refuse to be put to the side just because he doesn’t want to risk my safety for the sake of his. I’m good at what I do and there’s no relationship that will get in the way of that. I won’t let it. I built this life. I honed my skills. When I get lowered into a grave, it’s the only thing that I can say was truly my own.

With the next drive of the gun, I’m gasping for breath and clawing at his back. “Right there.”

He does it again.

Over and over until I can barely hold my weight anymore. Each time the trigger guard hits my clit, another curse falls past my lips. The orgasm knocks the wind out of my lungs and renders me limp and shaking on the table as he continues to drive the gun into me.

Mathijs captures my lips like he wants to steal the sound from me. He doesn’t give me any reprieve before unzipping his pants and thrusting into me. My body sings from the change in sensation. It hits me far deeper than the gun, and has the perfect curve that reaches the spot that makes the lights in my head go out.

“Ik kan niet zonder jou.”

I nod even though I don’t understand a word of what he’s saying. I’m so sensitive, it almost hurts to keep going. But I would rather die than stop this. My second orgasm looms closer with each of his thrusts, and I claw at his back, begging for more.

His lips are on me. His hands. His eyes. Every single part of him moves like it belongs to me. Like it always has, and he’s begging me to see it.

A trickle of fear crawls through the lusty haze. I don’t know if I’m ready to go around declaring to the world that we’re in a relationship. But he’s given me the push I needed to stop looking at my own reflection. Mathijs forced me out of my shell and gave me a roof, food, and companionship.

I know if I told him to stop, he would. If I said I needed time before any kind of relationship, he’d give it to me. If I wanted space… I don’t know how willing he’d be for that. But I’m sure he’d keep me at a distance.

So this time, when I kiss him, I hope he knows how grateful I am for helping me back onto my feet. I hope he’s aware that with each move of my lips, I’m thanking him for all his insistence. I tell him with my lips that he will always have my endless gratitude for reminding me what it means to be alive. Living. Not just a shadow of my former self.

I don’t want to say that I owe him for taking me in when he didn’t have to, but there’s no doubt in my mind that I would put myself in the line of fire for him. I’ll do it every day until I can’t stand anymore.

His groan ripples between us, breaths growing more labored like he’s on the pinnacle of his own release. The pressure of his thumb against my clit pulls me closer to the edge of another release that I don’t know how I’ll survive.

He murmurs words in Dutch that I don’t understand, and I capture his bottom lip between my teeth. A noise that doesn’t sound human rumbles at the back of his throat and his thrusts turn punishing. Blinding. Completely soul-destroying. The grip he has around the back of my neck is hard enough to leave behind a splotch of blue and black on my skin.

“Please don’t stop,” I whisper, clawing at any part of him I can reach while his thumb circles my clit.

“Louder,” he growls.

I whimper when he slams into me. My hand flies behind me to keep me steady. My moans come out unbidden and uncaring for the audience outside. By some miracle, I manage to form the words he wants, and they come out closer to a chant that builds the pressure in my core until I hit a breaking point. Every inch of me shatters and reforms, crying out his name like it’s my only link to life.

His own climax hits right after mine, and he seals it with a kiss that could stop time itself. Everything about it feels like utter perfection; the way his come drips into me, our thundering heartbeats, the desperate touches.

But the words that follow feel like a pin drop in a quiet room. Something about it is so vulnerable, yet feels like I’m being gutted alive.

“Let me make you another promise. One day, you will finally be my wife.”