Page 94 of Scornful

The fear and anger I've been holding shifts into something else.

Something desperate and needy.

The thought of him going out there, hunting dangerous men while kids watch Halloween movies and have skeleton finger treats…

"Be careful tonight," I breathe, then crush my lips to his.

He responds immediately, hands sliding under my shirt as he spins us, pressing me against the door.

The kiss is desperate, almost violent in its intensity.

I taste his dedication to the club, his darkness, his promise to come back to me.

"Always am," he growls against my neck, then bites down gently.

I gasp, arching into him. "Liar."

His hands are everywhere—pushing up my shirt, unfastening my jeans.

There's no gentleness now, just need.

Just the desperate desire to connect before he goes into something dangerous tonight.

"Gotta be quick," he mutters, lifting me.

I wrap my legs around his waist, feeling him hard against me through our clothes.

"Then stop talking," I demand.

He chuckles darkly, then captures my mouth again as he fumbles with his own zipper.

When he enters me in one smooth thrust, we both groan.

The door rattles slightly, and I know anyone passing by could hear, but I don't care.

"Quiet," he warns, though his own control is shredding right in front of me.

I bite my lip, muffling the sounds that want to escape as he moves.

It's fast, desperate, perfect.

My back hits the door with each thrust, the sound masked by the chaos from the main room.

"Promise me," I gasp. "Promise you'll come back."

"Always," he growls, pace increasing. "Fuck, Astrid. I’ll always come back to you."

I'm close embarrassingly fast, the emotion and danger heightening everything.

When his thumb finds my clit, I shatter, biting his shoulder to muffle my cry.

He follows immediately, whispering my name against my ear.

We stay pressed against the door for a moment, both panting.

Reality creeps back in—the party to plan, the run he’s going on tonight, the constant danger surrounding us.

"I love you," I whisper.

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