Page 27 of Broken Vows

His eyes never leave mine as he closes the distance between us, and I find myself unable to move, rooted to the spot by something stronger than fear or caution.

"You should be resting," he says, his voice low and rough.

"I'm not tired," I reply, surprised by the steadiness in my own voice.

He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne mingled with the faint metallic scent of gunpowder that still clings to him. Close enough that I can see the fine lines around his eyes, the day's stubble darkening his jaw, the pulse beating steadily at the base of his throat.

"Vincent," I begin, though I have no idea what I intend to say.

He doesn't let me finish. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, surprisingly gentle for a man who killed three people less than two hours ago. His thumb presses against my lower lip.

“You look at me like you want to be fucked against that wall.”

He leans in closer, voice low.

“Is that it, Melinda?”

I don’t answer. I just tilt my head, closing the last inch between us.

His hand slips from my mouth to my throat, light but commanding.

“Still not answering.”

I swallow hard. “What if I said yes?”

“Then I’m taking what’s mine.”

His fingers find the knot in the towel. He tugs, slow at first, eyes locked on mine. The fabric loosens.

I don’t stop him.

“Say the word, Melinda.”

"Yes," I whisper my answer.

The towel falls away, pooling at my feet. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but instead I feel powerful as I watch his eyes darken at the sight of me.

Pregnancy has barely changed my body—a slight fullness to my breasts, perhaps, a new softness to my belly that only medical eyes would notice.

"Beautiful," Vincent murmurs, his hands skimming up my sides, over my ribs, to cup my breasts. His thumbs brush over my nipples, and I arch into his touch, suddenly desperate for more contact, more pressure, more of him.

"You're trembling," he observes, his hands steadying me.

"It's been months," I admit. "I haven't... there's been no one else."

"Good," he says, possessiveness flashing in his eyes. "There better not be anyone else."

He lowers his head, his mouth replacing his fingers on my breast. I gasp as his tongue circles my nipple, teasing it to a hard peak before he draws it into his mouth, sucking gently. His hands move to my hips, holding me steady as my knees threaten to buckle under the sensation. My fingers thread through hishair, holding him against me as his attention shifts to my other breast, giving it the same thorough treatment.

"God, I've missed the taste of you," he murmurs against my skin, his breath hot and moist. His teeth graze my nipple, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain straight to my core.

I reach for the buttons of his shirt, my fingers fumbling in their haste. He helps me, shrugging out of the expensive fabric and letting it fall carelessly to the floor. His undershirt follows, revealing the muscled chest I remember from that night months ago. The same chest that pressed me into the concrete floor of the parking garage, shielding me from bullets meant to end both our lives.

My hands explore him greedily, tracing the contours of his shoulders, the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. I find scars I don't remember—a puckered bullet wound near his collarbone, a thin knife slash across his ribs, the evidence of a life lived dangerously. Each mark tells a story of survival, of the man who now stands before me, offering protection in exchange for possession.

Vincent's hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my breasts, skimming down my back to cup my ass and pull me hard against him. I can feel his arousal through his pants, insistent and promising. His mouth finds mine again, the kiss deep and consuming, stealing my breath and my thoughts in equal measure.

He lifts me suddenly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me into the bedroom. The sheets are cool against my back as he lays me down, his body covering mine, solid and warm. He pulls back just enough to look down at me, his eyes tracing every inch of my exposed skin.

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