Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(73)

“So you’d rather have a rash than dry skin?”

“Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not. I’m just… trying to understand the logic.”

A weird laugh bubbles up out of my chest, and I roll over again, this time so I’m facing him. The silver of a chain necklace peeks out from his white T-shirt, and his hands are stuffed in the pockets of his black sweatpants.

“Here’s something you need to understand about me,” I say. “Not all of my actions are driven by logic. Sometimes I just do things, regardless of the consequences.”

“Like, walk to a man’s house even though he’s made it clear he wants to hurt you.”

Running my tongue over the fronts of my teeth, I shrug. “You don’t really want to hurt me.”

“I don’t?”

“Nope.” My lips smack against the end of the word. “If you did, you would’ve left me outside to freeze.”

He hums, crouching down on his knees beside the sofa. When he smooths his hand over my forehead, his rings are cool against my warm skin.

“Maybe I want to hurt you on my own terms,” he murmurs, minty breath brushing my temple.

There’s certainly no denying he wants to. I’m just starting to question how strong that desire beats compared to the others.

I turn my head, and the flames behind him somehow reflect in the harsh grays of his irises. They burn where they lash against me, pulling me in, scarring me indefinitely.

My hand lifts, moving of its own accord, and I capture his strong chin between my fingers. My thumb presses into the gentle cleft hidden by his stubble, just below his bottom lip—the one I spent years drooling over as a teenager, imagining getting to do this very thing.

Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I blot out every other single thought, focusing instead on how surreal this is. How I can’t believe I’m sitting here, touching a god, wishing I could keep him.

“Maybe I’ll let you,” I whisper, and my hand slides down his chin to the back of his neck, tugging him into a brutal kiss that I just know I’ll feel on my teeth for years to come.





35





Riley’s kiss consumes me.

Lights me aflame in places I didn’t know existed.

It’s fucking dangerous, but I let her pull me in anyway.

Her lips move slowly against mine, coaxing and caressing like she’s trying to memorize the feel of our mouths together. My hand comes up and tangles in her hair, guiding her movements, desperate to feel more.

Clarity shoves through the haze of lust clouding my judgment, and I pause, my eyes popping open. Up close, I can count the light freckles dusting her nose, and see the exact shape of her scars; my hand slides around, cupping her jaw, and I trail my thumb over the one beneath her cheek.

Lips still sealed to mine, she opens her eyes; the pale, watery blues knock the rebellion out of me like wind being let out of sails, and I tilt her head, climbing up so I’m hovering over her as she sinks deeper into the couch.

Thighs trapped between mine, her robe rides up, taunting me. Disconnecting from her takes every ounce of willpower I possess, but I do it, licking the seam of her mouth as I pull back.

She scowls. “Please don’t tell me you’re regressing into being an asshole again.”

I smirk, shifting so the rigid outline of my dick presses into her hips. “Who said I stopped?”

“We were having a moment,” she whines.

Bringing my hand to rest on the arm of the couch, I hold myself up, using the opposite one to toy with the collar of her robe. She watches the movement, her gaze glued to my fingers, and I can tell she’s anxious.

“Breathe,” I murmur, trailing the pad of my index finger lightly down the valley between her breasts. “I just want to talk for a minute.”

Fear pulses in those beautiful blue eyes, and they fall closed. “I can’t tell you what you want to know.”

“Sure you can.”

“I can’t,” she snaps, and when she looks at me, tears fill her lids and spill over, staining her porcelain cheeks. “Please don’t make me.”

Bending, I press my forehead to hers, inhaling and letting her incinerate my lungs.

“I have to.” There’s a strain in my voice, something untethered and miserable, because goddamn if there isn’t a sick vindication in seeing her cry for me, over and over.

It’s satisfying in a way I’ve never known, sending bolts of arousal through me like lightning striking the sky.

My cock jerks against her hip, encouraged by her tears, and I reach up to collect them on my thumb; without giving it much forethought, I slide that same hand beneath the waist of my pants, pinching the bead of precum bubbling at the tip of my shaft, and bring it back up, mixing the two liquids together.

Pressing the wet pad to her mouth, I silently ask for entry. She hesitates, discomfort etched into her face, but after a second, she parts her lips enough for me to push in.

Her tongue swirls around, licking like she’s trying to embed my fingerprint into her memory. My throat constricts, my hips pinning her harder against the sofa, and something new flashes in her gaze.

Something carnal and needy that sends a shot of desire straight to my cock.

She sucks my thumb in to the knuckle, laving around like she’s addicted to the taste.