Page 41 of Lone Wolf

“Yes,” I tell her, and it feels like stepping off a cliff.

She rises to meet me, matching my intensity with her own. Sunny kisses like she does everything else—with absolute commitment, holding nothing back. Her hands slide under my shirt, her touch burning against my skin, leaving trails of fire wherever her fingers explore.

“I’ve thought about this,” she confesses against my neck, her teeth grazing sensitive skin. “So many times.”

“Me too,” I admit, surprising myself with the truth.

I capture her mouth again, hungry for her taste. I’ve kissed countless marks before, played countless roles, but I’ve never felt this desperate need, this honest desire. It scares me how much I want her, how quickly she’s dismantling everything I thought I knew about myself.

Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging just hard enough to send a jolt of pleasure down my spine. I respond by sliding my thigh between her legs, pressing upward. She gasps into my mouth, her hips rocking against me instinctively.

I’ve killed men with my bare hands. I’ve survived torture that would break most people. I’ve faced down Grandmother’s wrath without flinching. But nothing—nothing—has ever made me feel as powerful as the sound Sunny makes when I slide my hand under her shirt, fingers tracing the warm skin of her stomach.

I give myself over to the sensation, letting instinct guide me instead of calculation. She lets me pull her top up and off. She’s braless underneath, her full breasts swaying as she moves until I take them into my hands. They’re soft. Perfect. Warm.

Just like her.

“I’ve wanted you,” she breathes against my neck as her lips trail down, “since our very first day in training when you knocked me on my ass.”

I laugh, the sound strange and unfamiliar. “That’s twisted, Santiago.”

“Maybe. But I bet you wanted it too.”

I don’t answer with words. Instead, I lift my arms, letting her pull the shirt over my head. The cool air hits my skin, but I’m burning up inside, my body responding to her touch in ways I can’t control. Her eyes travel over me and I take her face in my hands to kiss her again, taste her sweet mouth. She pushes me back a little, murmuring, “Bed,” and I follow her lead, unwilling to break contact for more than a second.

We tumble onto her narrow dorm bed and the mattress creaks in protest beneath us, but I don’t care. Nothing matters except the feel of her body against mine, the heat of her skin, the taste of her tongue in my mouth.

“God, you’re beautiful,” she whispers, her eyes traveling over my exposed skin. Her fingertips trace the scars that map my history—the knife wounds, bullet scars, the burn marks that Grandmother left on me as punishment for failure.

I’ve always hated these marks, these permanent reminders of weakness. But Sunny touches them with something like reverence.

And I let her.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” I tell her after a moment, my voice rougher than I intended. “I won’t break.”

Her eyes meet mine. “Maybe I want to be gentle. Maybe you deserve that.”

No one’s ever said that to me before. No one’s ever looked at my scars and seen anything but weakness or a weapon honed through pain. Something shifts inside me, a crack in foundations I thought were solid.

“I don’t—” I start, but she silences me with another kiss, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against mine.

“Let me,” she whispers against my lips. “Just let me.”

And I do. I surrender to her touch as her mouth trails down my neck, across my collarbone, to my breast. When her lips close around my nipple, I arch against her, a sound escaping me that I’ve never made before. I’ve always been in control during sex, even when I played at submission for a mark. But with Sunny, I’m losing that control, surrendering to sensation in a way that should terrify me.

Instead, it feels like liberation.

Her mouth continues its journey downward, trailing kisses across my stomach. My muscles tense and release under her touch, my body responding without my permission. She hooks her fingers into the waistband of my pants, looking up at me with a question in her eyes.

“Yes,” I breathe, lifting my hips to help her.

She slides them down, taking my underwear with them, leaving me naked and desperate. Sunny’s dark eyes hold mine as she settles between my legs, her warm breath ghosting over my most sensitive skin. I’ve never felt this exposed, this vulnerable. My breath catches in my throat as her hands slide under my thighs, lifting slightly.

“I’ve thought about this,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh. “What you’d taste like. What sounds you’d make.”

Another time, I might have had a sharp retort ready. Now, I can only watch, transfixed, as she lowers her head. At the first touch of her tongue, I jerk, a shock of pleasure coursing throughme. She makes a sound of approval, her hands tightening on my thighs as she licks again, more deliberately this time.

I give in completely, let my head fall back against the pillow as she explores every inch of me with her mouth. Her technique is confident, assured—she knows exactly what she’s doing, alternating between broad strokes and a focus on my clit that has me gasping, hands fisting in the sheets. My hips rock against her face, seeking more pressure, more friction. She responds by sliding a finger inside me, then another, curling them upward as her tongue continues its merciless assault.

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