Page 48 of The Sentinel

His hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back, forcing my gaze to his. “And I don’t fucking burn alone.”

Before I could respond, he moved.

Fast.

One second, I was on my knees, the next, I was flat on my back on the old wooden floor, Marcus looming over me, his hands braced on either side of my head. The Metallica shirt had ridden up, baring my stomach, my thighs, leaving me completely exposed beneath him.

I let out a sharp breath, but I wasn’t scared. No, I was turned on as hell.

I licked my lips, watching his eyes track the movement. “Gonna do something about it?”

A wicked grin flashed across his face. He reached between us, palming himself, lining up. “You have no fucking idea.”

He thrust into me, deep and slow, filling me to the hilt, stretching me open.

I gasped, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders as he started to move. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t careful. He fucked me like he wanted to claim every inch of me, like he wanted me to feel him for days.

And I did.

Every stroke, every drag of his cock, every rough sound he made against my skin—it was all fire, all consuming, all him.

My nails raked down his back, my hips lifting to meet every thrust, the friction sending sparks through my veins. “Marcus?—”

His hand shot between us, his thumb finding my clit, pressing just enough to make me see stars. “Come for me,” he rasped, voice dark, demanding.

And fuck, I did.

Pleasure crashed through me, sharp and sudden, my whole body seizing around him as I shattered. Marcus groaned, his thrusts turning erratic, his breath hot against my neck as he chased his own release.

A heartbeat later, he tensed, his grip tightening, a rough curse tumbling from his lips as he came, buried deep inside me.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. Just the sound of our ragged breathing, the distant crash of waves outside, the heat of his body pressing me into the floor.

Then Marcus lifted his head, his dark gaze locking onto mine, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

I smirked, running a slow hand down his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. “So, about where I’m sleeping …”

He chuckled, low and rough, brushing a damp strand of hair from my face. “With me.”

I arched a brow. “That wasn’t a request, was it?”

His lips quirked. “No.”

I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t argue. Because honestly? I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

20

MARCUS

Iwoke up with Claire’s heat pressed against me, her bare legs tangled in mine, the old Metallica T-shirt riding up her hips as she breathed slow and steady on the creaky mattress. Sullivan’s Island had swallowed us whole last night—the salt air, the crash of waves, the whispers of a life I’d left behind—and for a few hours, I’d let it. Let her.

But dawn crept through the cracked blinds, slicing the room into jagged strips of light, and reality clawed its way back. Department 77 wasn’t waiting, Evelyn Hart wasn’t sleeping, and I’d just spilled enough truth to Claire to sink us both if she turned it loose.

I slid out from under her, careful not to wake her, and stood by the window, staring at the water churning beyond the dunes. The old Dane house groaned around me, a tired beast settling its bones, and I felt the weight of it—of her—settling into me, too. Claire wasn’t just a tool anymore, wasn’t just a wand to point at shadows. She was under my skin, in my blood, and I’d kill to keep her safe. That scared me more than the mess we were in.

“Marcus?” Her voice was rough with sleep, pulling me back. She propped herself up on one elbow, blonde hair a mess, gray eyes sharp even half-awake. The T-shirt clung to her, barely covering what I’d claimed last night, and I had to look away before I dragged her back under me.

“We’re heading to Dominion,” I said, grabbing my keys off the dresser. “Time to move.”

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