Page 79 of Black Sheep

Will the man I love kill me too?

Will those hands that lovingly worshiped me snuff the life out of me when his secret gets out? It was an easy choice when Finnan cautioned me against letting Axel know we’d found and buried my father. The not-so-easy choice was returning to Connecticut to live under the same roof as my parents’ murderer.

But at seventeen, as harrowing as it was going to be, I only needed to endure the nightmare for a year. Then I intended to put half a globe’s distance between me and the man who was now the embodiment of every single horror I’d ever imagined.

So I agreed to Finnan’s request.

Then the night before we were to return to Connecticut, he dropped his next bombshell. My mother was alive. For her to remain so, I had to hand over my life to Finan.

That bombshell turned out to be one of many.

I inhale shakily and pull the cotton sheet more tightly around me as I walk to the wide window.

Although I’ve visited New York City many times, I’ve never spent an inordinate amount of time here. A few day trips for shopping or dinners where I played hostess at Finnan’s business meetings are the sum total of my experience.

Now my whole existence is reduced to a two-hundred-square-foot bedroom in a club in Hell’s Kitchen. My lips twitch at the appropriate location name. Unlike the house in Connecticut, I don’t have security guards shadowing my every move, but I’m even more of a prisoner here than I was there.

I woke up half an hour ago, alone in bed. The only indication of Axel’s presence was his scent lingering on the sheets. However, what he didn’t imprint on the outside is very much branded on the inside. I can’t move or take a breath without his possession registering, without the ache his cock left in my pussy making its presence felt. He’s not in the room with me and I’m still claimed.

The door opens behind me and, as if conjured up from my thoughts, my jailor enters.

His dark hair is damp and finger combed, the black T-shirt and pants now replaced with stone-washed chinos and a dove-gray T-shirt. I catch a tantalizing glimpse of the tattoos gracing his body.

His eyes zero in on me with unnerving intensity and intent. Even before he’s halfway across the room, my belly begins to quiver.

My fingers convulse on the corners of the sheet and half-baked words of greeting wither and die on my tongue.

Good morning?

There’s nothing remotely good about what’s happening here.

How are you?

The vibes bouncing off his body are all the evidence I need.

He’s in no mood for pleasantries either because, the moment he reaches me, he yanks the sheet from my body. My naked back meets the cool glass and I gasp.

His mouth devours the sound, his tongue licking deep into my mouth as he conquers what he’s already claimed. The kiss is hot, dominating. Unapologetic and sizzlingly arousing.

The swollen tissue between my legs begins throbbing anew. Large hands slide down my shoulders and my sides to rest beneath my breasts. The sensation of them there fries my mind. A whimper escapes me before I can stop it. He eats that too, his hungry growls telling me each sound I make turns him on harder.

“Touch me,” he breathes against my mouth, the command no less potent for being low voiced.

My hands, shamefully eager, slide beneath his T-shirt. Hot, muscle-tight skin greets my fingers as his hard abs ripple to my touch. I caress higher, over mouth-watering ridges to his pecs. When my fingers brush his flat nipples, I pause. Drag my nails over the tiny bumps. A full-body jerk before he’s pressing his engorged erection into the cradle of my hips. Craving more of that reaction, I repeat it.

A feral sound rips from his throat. His hands slide up to capture my breasts, his thumbs mercilessly delivering double the exquisite torture. Hot arrows of need lance my sex, and my knees weaken.

Axel presses his lower body deeper into me, supporting my weight with one leg between mine. The rough material of his pants grazes my ultra-sensitive clit, and I cry out.

“Fuck. Cleo…fuck.”

The words aren’t charged like his vulgar ones were last night. They’re solemn, a little bewildered. Like a prayer. For what, I don’t know.

His head drops to capture one nipple in his mouth, and my thoughts shatter. Hot, wet, hungry, his teeth and tongue ravage one peak then the other, his movements growing frenzied until he pushes the globes together and slides his broad tongue over both at once. He suckles until they’re red and throbbing and ravenous. Then he takes my mouth again, his hands back to cupping and squeezing my breasts.

My hips pump his thigh, the hunger tearing through me needing satisfaction. My wetness soaks through, rendering the material coarser. Delivering more friction. “Oh!”

“Fucking hell, you’re like the headiest addiction,” he groans furiously against my mouth before he wrenches away. The brutal denial has my nails sinking into his waist before I register my action.

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