Page 82 of The Sculptor

I take him deep.

Take his groans.

Feel his hands tangle in my hair, moving with me as I work him into a frenzy.

I don’t know how long I stroke him, but when I feel him swell inside my mouth, I’m suddenly ripped away.

“Time’s up,” he grits out, like it pained him. “My turn.”

He shoves a bar stool in front of me, and without missing a beat, he presses me down onto my stomach, his breath in my ear when he says, “Might want to hang on, sweetheart. This might get a little rough.”

“You promise?” I grin and find the legs of the stool, gripping them hard. There’s no way he won’t pound the hell out of me now. I have pushed him over the edge—snapped the last of his control.

I love the wild and abandoned side of him.

I love to see him lose control.

To exert his power like he did when he stole me from Langston.

This is the man who owns me, body and soul—and I love to see him consume the very thing he holds above all others.

Me.

“Ray,” he says, finding the waistband of my shorts and yanking them just low enough for his fingers to find my center. “I’d be careful taunting me.” He slides two fingers in, the delightful stretch pulling a moan from my lips. “I might decide that one is not enough.”

Before I can ask what he means, the tip of his cock nudges my entrance, a gentle warning before he thrusts in to the hilt, stealing my breath in one go.

Duke groans, his head coming to rest on my back as I adjust to the intrusion. “Show me my heart, Ray.”

And I do, taking his hand and placing it on my chest, where my heart beats wildly for the man who wholly consumes me with an unforgiving passion, taking every thrust, every breath until we’re both a spent mess in the kitchen with the smell of burnt cookies in the oven.

It was a Christmas I would never forget.

That is, until the phone rang—a call that changed our lives forever.

Duke

“I’m sorry, man. This doesn’t mean anything.”

Vance’s assurance does nothing to ease the pain in my chest. Not after Ray heard the news and ran outside to the dock.

The adoptive mother of our son is dead.

That’s all the information Harrison Potter could find. A death certificate of the woman who cared for our boy.

“What about the father?” Ray’s mom said it was a couple who took him.

Vance clears his throat. “A politician—he passed a few years ago.”

“And they didn’t leave any mention of the child? No will that left him any cash or assets?”

I’m grasping at straws, but this can’t be the only lead—one that went absolutely nowhere.

Vance sighs. “There’s no mention of a child anywhere that we can find. They hid him well, or Harrison is a fucking liar. I’m leaning toward the latter.”

I’m not so sure. Harrison Potter would easily lie to Astor and me, but knowing his precious son is upset, I think he’d do whatever it took to get back in Vance’s good graces—even if that meant helping me in the process.

“But how could he just disappear?”

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