Page 77 of Faith Among Monsters

He’s back to running things. Just like the day I arrived.

But I’m not the same woman I was when I stepped onto this island. And Dax isn’t just some inmate anymore.

“Not in Sinclair’s room,” I say.

“No, sweetheart.” His voice drops, low and steady, a promise wrapped in rough edges. A vow. “Not in Sinclair’s room.”

The tension coiled in my chest unwinds just a little. I nod, shifting my weight. “The boat?”

“Trip’s on it. It’s fucked, but he’ll fix it,” he says.

I should feel relief. The island is secure. The dead are dead. We have food, weapons, and a plan. And yet…

The room suddenly feels too small. Too charged.

I glance up at him, at the sharp cut of his jaw, the heat in his eyes.

He’s watching me.

I don’t know who moves first.

Maybe it’s him, closing the space between us, caging me in with his presence, his heat, his need. Or maybe it’s me, grabbing the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric, yanking him forward, needing to feel every hard inch of him against me.

His mouth crashes into mine, and everything disappears.

The exhaustion. The blood. The bodies.

There’s only Dax.

His hands are rough, demanding, owning every inch of me like I was made to fit beneath them. He grips my hips, lifting me like I weigh nothing, like I’m exactly where I belong, pinned beneath him, against him, against this desk.

The edge digs into my thighs, but I don’t care. I spread my legs wider, pulling him closer, harder, grinding against him.

He groans, low and guttural, pressing against me, his cockstraining against his jeans, thick and ready.

“Still think I should be in bed?” he rasps against my lips.

I nip his bottom lip, dragging my nails down his back. I want him to lose control. I need him to. “I think you should shut up.”

His dark chuckle vibrates against my throat. “Make me.”

I kiss him hard, messy, breathless, biting at his lips like I want to devour him. His grip tightens, fingers bruising into my hips as he rocks against me, pushing his cock right where I need him most.

The ache turns sharp. Desperate.

He snaps.

Dax tears at my shirt, yanking it over my head. My bra follows, and his mouth is on me before the lace hits the floor. He bites at my breast, tongue soothing the sting before his lips close around my nipple, sucking deep and slow.

I arch into him, gasping. “Fuck, Dax.”

“Say it.” His voice is a gravelly command, dark and raw. His hand slides down my stomach, fingers teasing the waistband of my pants, slipping beneath just enough to make me whimper. “Tell me you need this as bad as I do.”

I whimper again, back arching as he teases, just barely grazing where I’m dripping for him. “Dax,” I breathe, rolling my hips, chasing his fingers. “I need you.”

His sharp inhale is followed by a growl of approval.

He rips my pants down my legs. Not slow. Not careful.

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