Page 32 of The Sentinel

And I walked away.

14

MARCUS

Iwatched her walk farther down the tunnel, her heels clicking sharp against the stone, that silver dress swaying with every step like a taunt carved in liquid metal.

Shock pinned me where I stood, my breath ragged, my cock still twitching from what she’d just done. Claire Dixon had dropped to her knees and taken me apart—sucked me dry with that wicked mouth of hers—and then walked away like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t just shattered every ounce of control I’d been clinging to. My knees felt weak, my head spinning, but fuck, it didn’t last long.

Heat roared back, fast and vicious, clawing through my chest. I wanted her more than ever—wanted her under me, over me, screaming my name until her voice broke. She thought she’d won, thought she’d flipped the game, but this wasn’t over. Not by a damn shot. I recovered quick, adrenaline spiking, and took off after her, my boots silent on the stone, closing the gap in seconds.

I caught her around the waist, my arm locking tight, pulling her back against me. She gasped, soft and sharp, and I slid one hand up her front, fingers brushing the curve of her breast through that thin silver fabric. Her body tensed, but she didn’t fight—didn’t pull away. I leaned in, lips grazing her ear, voice low and rough. “My turn.”

She twisted her head, gray eyes flashing, but I didn’t give her time to fire back. I steered her to the left, down a narrow branch of the tunnel, my grip firm on her hip. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of leather and cigar smoke as I pushed open a door—unmarked, hidden, a room my brothers and I carved out years ago. Dark leather sofas lined the walls, a flat-screen TV humming low in the corner, shelves stocked with bourbon and Cubans. Our sanctuary, away from the world, where we smoked and schemed and forgot the blood on our hands.

I didn’t stop. I walked her straight to the nearest sofa, spun her around, and bent her over it, her hands bracing against the leather. She let out a breath—half protest, half something else—and I yanked that silver dress up over her hips, the fabric bunching in my fists. My breath caught, hard and fast, because fuck, she wasn’t wearing panties. Nothing. Just bare, smooth skin, her pussy glistening wet and ready, begging for me. I nearly came undone right there, my cock throbbing, straining against my pants.

“Thought you’d tease me all night?” she said, voice coy, dripping with that New York edge, but I cut her off.

I dropped to my knees behind her, hands gripping her thighs, spreading her open. My mouth was on her before she could finish, tongue dragging slow and deepthrough her folds. She was soaked—hot, slick, dripping down my chin—and she tasted like sin, sharp and sweet, a flavor I could drown in and never get enough. I groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her, and fuck, I loved it—loved the way her wetness coated my lips, the way her thighs trembled under my hands. I licked her again, long and deliberate, savoring every inch, every shudder, every drop of her on my tongue.

Her shock hit fast—her body stiffening, a choked gasp tearing from her throat. “Marcus—stop—” she started, but it flipped quick. “No—keep going—please?—”

I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. My mouth was everywhere—licking, kissing, sucking—tongue plunging deep, then flicking light over her clit, teasing until she bucked against me. Her taste flooded me, rich and heady, and I ate her like a man starved, lips sealing around that swollen bud, sucking hard while my hands gripped her ass, spreading her wider. She moaned, loud and broken, her fingers digging into the leather, and I didn’t let up—licked her faster, deeper, chasing every sound, every twitch, every fucking plea spilling from her mouth.

I didn’t want it to stop. Wanted to keep her like this, trembling and begging, my tongue buried in her forever. But she broke—tremored hard, her whole body shaking, a scream ripping out as she came, her pussy clenching, pulsing against my mouth. I lapped her through it, slow and greedy, drinking her down until she sagged against the sofa, panting.

I didn’t hesitate. Stood fast, stripped my pants off in one rough motion, my cock springing free, hard and aching. She was still bent over, dress hiked up, ass bare, and I plunged into her—deep, fast, no warning. Fuck,did she feel good. Tight, hot, slick from her orgasm, her walls gripping me like a vise. I groaned, low and guttural, thrusting in again, deeper, harder, my hands locking on her hips. She pushed back against me, meeting every stroke, and oh, she was perfect—better than I’d imagined, better than that damn kiss, better than anything.

I fucked her hard, time and time again, each thrust driving me deeper, her moans filling the room, sharp and desperate. Then she moved—pushed me back with a sudden shove, hands grabbing the front of my shirt, yanking me toward the sofa. I hit the leather, and she was on me like a lioness, straddling me, eyes wild, gray and burning. She ripped at her dress, pulling it off over her head, and I froze, staring, because fuck, her body was a goddamn masterpiece.

Full tits, high and round, nipples hard and pink, begging to be sucked. A slim waist flaring into hips I wanted to bruise with my grip. Skin smooth and flushed, glowing under the dim light, every curve screaming for my hands, my mouth, my cock. I stripped my shirt off too, tossing it aside, and she climbed on top, sinking down onto me, taking me in deep. I groaned, hands flying to her hips, guiding her as she rode me, her tits bouncing with every move, her head tipping back, blonde hair spilling loose.

She fucked me like she owned me—hard, fast, relentless—her nails digging into my chest, leaving red lines I’d feel tomorrow. I couldn’t get enough—hands roaming, gripping her ass, sliding up to cup those perfect tits, thumbs brushing her nipples until she gasped. She was tight, so fucking tight, her pussy clenching around me, wet and hot, driving me insane. I thrust up to meether, matching her rhythm, watching her face—those parted lips, those half-closed eyes, the way she bit down on her bottom lip like she was trying to hold it together.

I didn’t hold back. I grabbed her harder, pulled her down onto me, slamming into her until the room spun, until the only sounds were her moans and my growls and the slap of skin on skin. She came first—shattered around me, a cry ripping from her throat, her body shaking, walls pulsing so tight I couldn’t breathe. It tipped me over—heat exploding down my spine, my cock jerking as I came hard, spilling into her, groaning her name like a fucking prayer.

We stayed there, panting, her forehead pressed to mine, sweat slick between us. Her breath was hot against my lips, her body limp on top of me, and I could still feel her trembling, little aftershocks rippling through her. I didn’t move—didn’t want to—just kept my hands on her hips, holding her there, marveling at the feel of her, the weight of her, the way she fit against me like she was made for it.

She shifted, finally, lifting her head, eyes meeting mine. A slow, lazy smile curved her lips, and she murmured, voice rough and sated, “You think we should get back to the party?”

I stared at her, chest still heaving, that silver dress crumpled on the floor, her naked and fucked-out on my lap. The party—Charleston’s elite, the masks, the whispers—felt a million miles away. Department 77, the photos, the feds circling—it all faded, drowned out by the pulse still pounding in my ears, the taste of her still on my tongue.

“Nah,” I said, voice gravelly, hands tightening on her. “We’re not done here.”

She laughed—soft, wicked, a sound that hit me low—and I knew right then I was fucked. Not just tonight, not just this room, but deep, all the way down. Claire Dixon had me, and I didn’t care. I’d chase her into every dark corner she’d let me, and I’d burn it all down to keep her there.

15

CLAIRE

Iwas in trouble.

The kind I couldn’t talk my way out of. The kind that had nothing to do with the investigation, Dominion Hall, or the tangled web of secrets I was trying to unravel. No, this was something worse.

This washim.

Marcus Dane, with his piercing blue eyes and his touch that burned like a brand. Marcus, who had just been under me, inside me, his breath ragged, his hands gripping my hips like he was afraid to let go.

---