Page 86 of Isaac

"I want to explore it too," he murmurs seductively, leaning in until I feel his breath stir against my lips. His voice is soft. It’s heat and spicy cinnamon wrapped around every word.

Our mouths collide in a kiss, the tantalizing taste of him has me craving more. My fingers find their way to his shoulders before mingling with the dark waves of hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as I surrender to the sensual rhythm of this mad entanglement.

He lets out a low growl as he pins me against the car. The coolness of metal against my back is a perfect contrast to the fire raging in me.

He explores my mouth with fervor: teeth grazing lips, tongues wrestling for dominance—an erotic dance conducted under the starlit Nevada sky.

I can feel him harden against my thigh—his desire for me evident.

He trails kisses along my jawline, nibbling at the sensitive spot behind my ear that has me gasping for breath.

"I think we better take it inside," I rasp out a suggestion.

"I think you’re right." His agreement is immediate. He does something I don’t expect from him—grazes my cheek lightly with his tongue before pulling back a little. We tumble toward the stairs, completely under each other’s spell.

I struggle for coherence, barely remembering the passcode for my own door. My head is all cloudy, filled with the promise of something new, something I’ve been subconsciously thinking about ever since the day he showed up at Purgatory.

Once the front door clicks open, I drag Hawk inside, pushing him against the wall and impatiently wrestling with the worn fabric of his T-shirt to peel it off him. He’s all taut abs and splashes of ink across his tanned skin. The scars only make him more beautiful.

He cradles my face gently in his warm palms before sealing our lips into another consuming kiss and effortlessly flipping me around until I realize I'm now wedged between him and the wall.

It’s a position I don’t like to put myself in.

A position of weakness.

He senses it. Senses my unease. His eyes find mine in the dimness of the room and he strokes his thumbs over my cheeks as if brushing my worries away.

There’s this voice inside my head, the voice that came to me in prison when I’d gotten too tired to be someone else’s punching bag. That voice drove me to conduct my first kill. They never found out who did it. Or if they did, they didn’t dare to come to me with accusations.

And now this voice is telling me things I don’t want to hear, so I shove it back down and tell it to shut up.

"We’re not supposed to be doing this," Hawk says.

"No, but we are and you’re going to make me feel fucking good," I husk out, my voice a rough whisper that fills the unnecessary pockets of space between us.

He stares at me.

"What are you waiting for?" I urge.

"Don’t know," he mutters.

His hands are everywhere at once: my neck, my chest, my abdomen—shaky fingers trying to unbutton my shirt.

"Hurry up," I order, my voice ragged with need.

Finally, the fabric pools on the floor at my feet.

We are both breathing hard as his eyes drink in every unshielded inch of me. I can’t remember the last time I was bared in front of someone like this. Voluntarily.

Gently, he reaches out and traces the contours of my own scars, the ones on my chest—five slashes from a fight during my first week in the lockup. Then his finger slips to the mark below my rib cage on the left. Another attempt on my life.

"Prison souvenirs," I tell him quietly.

He brings his hand to my throat and runs the tip of his index finger over the faded mark there—on my neck.

"And this one?"

"This one is a gift from some asshole who's long dead. Tried to end me right after I got out."

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