Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,64
his stare, I draw him deeper, bobbing my head. I moan around his length because it seems like it’s something he might like, and yes, he absolutely does.
His hips buck forward.
His fingers shove me down, making me take even more.
I choke on his length, eyes watering, eagerness rising as I shift on my knees.
It’s a power move on his part. But of the two of us, I’m the one wielding the torch. I love it. Love the way he silently begs for me, with his thrusting hips and deep, guttural groans. Love the way his fingers flex in my hair, as though he’s desperate to maintain control but can’t help letting go to the sensation of me working him over.
Saxon may be the king of his emotions everywhere else in his life, but in this moment, with my lips moving down his length, then back up, over and over again, he’s lost to the chaos. He’s lost in me.
Giving him one last twist at his base, I pull back, canting my head for a picture of total innocence. “Tell me, Saxon . . . are you feeling scared?”
His lips firm, a promise of retribution manifesting when he fists my hair and growls, “Face the wall.”
I raise my brows, egging him on. “Shall I drop trou? Or would you prefer to do the honors?”
A dark cloud washes over him. “If you were anyone else—”
“But I’m not.” I stand, already shoving the denim and my knickers to my thighs, then farther down to my knees and ankles, before kicking them away. I keep my boots on. “I’m me and you’re you.”
“And that means what?” he bites out. “Good and evil?”
“No, fire and ice.” I smooth a hand over my belly, delighting in the way he tracks the pass of my fingers like a predator does with its prey. His damp shirt clings to his torso, doing a piss-poor job of hiding the twitch of his pectoral muscles when I inch my fingers down my body, tantalizing him with the promise of what lies between my legs. “I breathe, you inhale, and we both go up in flames.”
Leaning forward, I take a tentative step toward him. Hand to his strong chest, my fingers graze the corded muscles of his shoulder.
Do it, Isla, take the risk.
He watches me with hooded, wary eyes. Danger lurks in those green-yellow depths, but I take the plunge anyway, testing him with a brush of my thumb over his mouth.
His hand claps around my wrist, yanking me away. “Don’t.”
Steadily, I meet his gaze. “Steal a kiss from me.”
He stares at my mouth. Looks at it as if he can picture the kiss now—my lips pliant beneath his, absorbing every thrust of his tongue, every nip of his teeth. Saxon’s kiss would be just as savage as the man himself. Give it to me, please, I want to beg. But then the moment is gone, utterly obliterated, as he whips me around so that I’m facing the wall. I reach out to the brick to steady myself, only for his palm to land on my spine and lower me, then lower me even more.
The horizontal position exposes me completely. Legs spread wide, I feel the chill in the air along my wet folds, then hear the telltale sound of a foiled wrapper ripping open.
Oh, God, this is happening. Really happening.
Me, Saxon Priest, sex.
Sex in an old mobile shop. Sex on the run from the police. Sex with the man who would despise me if he learned that I’m the one who killed the king, then allowed the blame to sit on his shoulders.
The head of Saxon’s thick cock grazes my core, and my pulse leaps with anticipation. “Last chance to walk away.”
There’s no walking away, not when I’m already feeling the stirrings of a new addiction. “Ruin me—take me—”
He does, on a single, hard stroke that has my fingers raking the wall and my head falling forward with a startled cry. My palm screams in pain from the knife wound and my core aches from stretching for a man like Saxon Priest and my heart . . . my heart flourishes.
Calloused fingers stake their claim down my spine before framing my hips in a bruising grip. He holds me like I might run away at any second. He slams into me, over and over again, with the ferocity of a man who’s been starved of the sun for years and has only just stepped under its warmth again.