She kisses me back. Her hands grip my shirt. She pulls me closer. Her tongue meets mine and the taste of blood doesn't make her recoil. She makes a sound into my mouth. Involuntary. Damning. Honest. A moan that says everything her words haven't: that watching me kill made her wet. That the blood on my jaw is the most erotic thing she's ever tasted. That she is as damned as I am, and she doesn't care.
I pull back. Her lips are smeared red. Not lipstick.
"We need to leave."
"Yes."
Lex handles the room. We leave through the back. The car is waiting. Twelve minutes to the penthouse.
She sits beside me, and her hand grips my thigh. Knuckles white. She's shaking. Not from fear. I can smell her arousal in the closed space of the car. The scent of a woman who is soaked through her underwear and trying to hold herself together for twelve more minutes. My hand covers hers on my thigh. Presses down.
Neither of us speaks. The city blurs past.
We barely make it to the elevator.
Chapter 23
Siobhan
Mine
* * *
The elevator doors close, and his mouth is on my neck before I can breathe.
He pins me against the wall. Both hands on my hips, lifting me, pressing me into the metal, and his teeth find the spot below my ear that he's owned since the first time he kissed me there and my head falls back and the moan that escapes me echoes off every surface.
His hand pushes up my dress. Finds the edge of my underwear. His fingers slide beneath the silk and into me and I'm so wet his fingers meet no resistance. Two fingers, deep. His thumb finds my clit and presses and my hips buck against his hand and I grab his shoulders and hold on.
"I killed a man for you."
"I know."
"I'd kill a hundred."
"I know."
"You should be horrified."
I grip his jaw. The blood. I trace it with my thumb. The dried rust of a man's life on the skin of the man I love.
"I'm not horrified. I'm dripping. I've been dripping since I watched you break his wrist."
He groans against my neck. His fingers curl inside me and his thumb circles and the elevator is rising…and I'm rising and the dual motion makes my head spin. I ride his hand shamelessly, my hips grinding against his palm, chasing the pressure he's building with the devastating precision of a man who's memorized every nerve ending I own.
The orgasm hits fast and sharp. I come on his fingers in the elevator with the city falling away below us, my thighs clamping around his hand, biting down on his shoulder to keep the sound from carrying through the shaft. He works me through it. Doesn't stop until I'm shaking and pushing at his wrist.
The doors open.
He pulls his hand free. Brings his fingers to his mouth. Tastes me while looking directly into my eyes. The sight of him licking my arousal off fingers that held a knife ten minutes ago makes my clit throb again, the aftershocks of the orgasm reigniting into something hungrier.
"Inside," he says. "Now."
He walks me backward through the penthouse door. His hands on my hips. I'm reaching for his belt, his buttons, trying to get to his skin, and he catches both my wrists. One hand. Holds them behind my back.
"Not yet."
The denial short-circuits me. I've been the one initiating for weeks. I knocked on the door. I said "let go." I climbed on top of him and held his face and told him where to look. And now he's holding my wrists and making me wait and the loss of control is a shock to my system that bypasses every analytical instinct I have and goes straight between my legs.