Page 46 of The Sentinel

No heels. No panties. Just his shirt.

Marcus exhaled harshly, his control splintering.

I smoothed my hands down the hem. “I could grab something from my suitcase,” I murmured.

Marcus moved fast. One second he was leaning against the frame, the next he was in front of me, fingers twisting around the bottom of the shirt, toying with the fabric.

“No,” he said, voice low. “I like you better like this.”

My breath caught.

His fingers skimmed my thigh, teasing, deliberate, and the shift in the air was instant. The exhaustion, the adrenaline crash, the weight of the night—it all burned away, leaving only this. Only him.

I tilted my head, meeting his gaze. “You think you get a say in what I wear?”

His smirk was slow, dark. “You want to argue about it?”

No. Not even a little.

Marcus didn’t wait for permission. He reached for me, fingers slipping beneath the hem of the T-shirt, dragging it up just enough to bare my thighs, my hips. His knuckles brushed my stomach, a ghost of a touch, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

“You’re not wearing anything underneath,” he murmured, his voice shifting, going darker.

I bit my lip. “You knew that already.”

His hands flexed against my skin. “Yeah,” he admitted. “But it’s different now. Now it’s just you. No party. No dress. No distractions.”

Just me. Just him. Just this sharp, electric thing between us that neither of us could fight.

I let him lift the shirt higher, baring me completely. I should have felt exposed, vulnerable—but all I felt was his. His hands on me, his eyes devouring me, the rough pads of his fingers dragging over my stomach, my hips, my thighs.

“Marcus,” I whispered, a plea, a challenge—both.

He dropped to his knees.

My breath stalled.

I had expected him to lift me, pin me against the wall, take what he wanted. But this?

This was worship.

His fingers wrapped around my thighs, gripping, spreading, his mouth ghosting over my bare skin. He didn’t dive in right away—no, he took his damn time, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of my thigh, his breath warm and teasing.

I dug my fingers into his hair. “Stop teasing.”

He looked up at me, wicked amusement flashing in his features. “You’re in my house. My rules.”

I’d been in his house earlier—Dominion Hall, with its looming presence, its corridors steeped in secrets. But this was different. That fortress had been built for power, for strategy, for control. This place—the old Dane house on Sullivan’s Island—felt raw. Real. It wasn’t curated for appearances or intimidation. It was lived-in, worn by time and weather, shaped by something far more personal than empire-building.

And that made it more dangerous.

Because Dominion was Marcus’s battlefield. But this? This felt like his past. His bones. His breath.

I didn’t have time to argue.

His mouth was on me, hot, slow, devastating.

A sharp gasp tore from my throat as he licked into me, soft at first, a slow stroke designed to drive me insane. His hands tightened on my hips, holding me in place as he worked me open, each flick of his tongue sending pleasure shooting through me.

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