Page 151 of The Vagabond

Her voice breaks on a whisper. “I’m yours.”

My blood roars in my veins. My hand slides down, slow, relentless, over the curve of her belly, between her thighs. She’s soaked.Soaked.

Her knees buckle the second I stroke her clit, slow, torturous circles, the kind that make her whole body quake.

“You see that?” I whisper, lips brushing her throat, dragging my teeth along the tender skin there. “You’re still wet for me. You’re still fucking aching.”

She lets out a shuddering moan, nodding, trembling, hips rocking back desperately into my hand.

“Say it again,” I rasp, fingers pressing tighter, drawing her closer to the edge, closer to the point where she forgets how to stand, how to breathe, how to be without me inside her.

“I’m yours,” she gasps, her voice breaking, hips jerking against my palm.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!” she cries out, raw, wild, desperate.

I release her throat, only to wrap my hand around my cock, dragging the tip through her soaked folds, slow, deliberate, watching her eyes widen in the mirror — watching her tremble and fall apart just from the anticipation.

“I want you to see,” I snarl, lining up behind her, pressing into her in one brutal, claiming stroke, so deep that she sobs and shatters against the glass.

“I want you to watch yourself break on me.”

Her mouth falls open in a soundless scream, her eyes blown wide, her body arching, straining, helpless as I fuck her harder, deeper, until every thrust punches the breath right out of her.

“This,” slam.

“Is,” slam.

“What,” slam.

“You,” slam.

“Fucking,” slam.

“Do to me.”

Her hands scramble for purchase on the counter, nails scratching at the marble, desperate, sobbing, trembling, but her eyes never leave the mirror. And when she comes — again — it’s with my name torn from her throat, etched into her bones, smeared into the fogging glass, as if even the mirror knows she’s mine.

She’s curled against me,naked, soft, flushed — breath steady, mouth parted slightly, lashes fluttering as she drifts somewhere I can’t follow. And I’m just… lying here.

Fucking wrecked.

I can still feel her on me — her touch, her mouth, her goddamn scent in my skin. She’s so small like this, so delicate, like if I breathe too hard, I might break her.

I drag a rough hand through my hair, my chest tight, my heart hammering like it doesn’t know how to slow down.

How the fuck did this happen? How didshe—the girl I was supposed to protect, supposed to rescue and walk away from— become the one thing I can’t live without?

She undid me. Completely. Without even trying.

She sleeps, and I stare, and all I can think is: she’s in my blood now. In my bones. Carved under my skin like a scar that will never, ever fade. And the worst, most vicious part? I don’t want to be saved from it. I don’t want to fight it. I want to drown in her. I want to wake up every goddamn day and remind her, over and over, who she belongs to — and who I belong to. Because it’s not a one-way fucking street anymore.

I’m hers, just as much as she’s mine. Maybe more. And ifanyone tries to take her from me again? They’ll find out real fucking quick what kind of monster Saxon North becomes when someone touches his woman.

The first thingI notice when she stirs is the way she breathes.

Soft. Shallow. A little uneven, like her body’s still trying to pull itself back together after the night we just had.

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