Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,61

he murmurs, “Guy was right about me, you know. I don’t do pets; I don’t do friends.”

My fingers wriggle in his grip, but I’m not exactly pulling away. Because you want it. The heat. The tension. The taste of fear from the unknown. I swallow the truth, keeping it buried. “I don’t imagine your charming personality keeps people around long enough to find out if they’d want the same of you.”

His thumb presses on my inner wrist, as if testing the pace of my pulse. Fast. It’s pounding so, so fast, a fact that Saxon must know because his eyes gleam. “Ask me why, Isla. Ask me why I don’t want you as a friend, as a pet.”

The feminist in me wants to spit in his face for assuming that I’d want to be a “pet” to any man. Him, most especially. But the rest of me . . . the rest of me trembles, and the shaking isn’t rooted in fear. Heat blooms between my legs and, beneath the confines of my wet shirt, my nipples bead into hard, little points. If I give this man even a sliver of what he’s asking of me, I’ll surely drown.

But like when he ordered me to get in the car, or the confessional, or this blasted, run-down building, I succumb to the ice in his veins and the blistering heat that tethers us together.

“Tell me why,” I echo.

It’s not a question.

It’s not me falling to his feet and worshipping the very ground he walks on.

But it’s enough, because his jaw locks and his grasp on my hand tightens and his pale green eyes sear me on the spot. “Because I would take everything that you are and make it mine. Your beauty, your humanity, your fire. I’d fill every broken and misshapen part of me with you until there’s nothing left.” He laughs, a dark, gritty sound that tangles my fear and desire into a web that has no exit point, or understanding, but just is. “A man like me steals what he wants, Isla, and with every piece of you that I took, I would still demand more, until you begged me for freedom.”

The word DANGER might as well be dancing around us in neon lights. I close my eyes, breathing sharply to override the aching need in my core, and I see it: the danger. I open them, and meet green and yellow, and there, in his tempestuous gaze, resides danger at its most visceral.

If I were smart, I’d nail him in the balls and run for safety.

If I were smart, I would do anything but what I do next, which is lick my lips and whisper, “Tell me what you’d steal—from me. Tell me everything.”

His nostrils flare and then I feel it—him.

Oh, God.

Behind the prison of his wet trousers, Saxon’s hard-on is huge. He leans into me, giving me his whole weight, as well as the delicious outline of his cock against my stomach. Sweat coalesces on my back. Bloody hell, the devil has come out to play and I’m burning. I nearly whimper as I struggle, one-handed, to rid myself of my coat. Saxon rips it from me, and, to the chorus of this shouldn’t be happening singing in my brain, he repositions me against the wall, keeping me restrained.

“Your taste,” he growls, rolling his hips against me in a sensual glide that promises orgasms and good times for all, “right off the wet lips of your pussy.” I do whimper, then, and he takes my captive hand and splays it over my right breast, so that I’m cupping myself through my shirt. Beneath my fingers, my nipple pebbles. “Your cries,” he rasps, turning his gaze down to our hands. “I’d own them, each and every one. When you scream at the top of your lungs; when you’re rendered silent because my cock is stroking the back of your throat and it’s either scream or choke.”

Fuck.

Arching my back, I shove my breast into my palm, urging him to let me squeeze, to pinch my nipple. Something. Anything. Desperation rips a moan from my throat. “Saxon.”

His eyes darken.

A tick leaps to life in his square jaw.

In any other man, those small tells wouldn’t be enough to imply how much he wants this, wants me. But in this man—this cold, stoic man who breathes ice and detachment—those ticks reveal everything and more.

“What else?” I ask, shamelessly. “Saxon, what else?”

As one, he moves our joined hands south. We trace my