Page 28 of Velvet Betrayal
And I realized, with a weight that wasn’t unpleasant, that I didn’t want him to stop either.
I knew what I should have done. But when he leaned down and kissed me, I didn’t even think about telling him to stop.
Kieran
She didn’t bolt. Not even when I half-expected her to. Instead, Ruby reached behind her, shut the bathroom door with a soft click, and kissed me again—slower this time, her hand splayed over my chest.
I let her take the lead. Every muscle in me wanted to flip her and pin her to the marble, but I kept it on a leash. Maybe she could feel that tension, maybe she just wanted to savor the moment, but either way, she held me close, her mouth soft and searching, like she was spelling out a secret just for us. Just for tonight. Just for now.
There was always a charge between us, but this time it was tangled up with everything we couldn’t say—the panic, the exhaustion, the sense that tomorrow was waiting to devour us. She was trembling a little, and so was I, but she didn’t let it slow her down. She rose up on her toes, nosed along my jaw, fingers digging into my shoulder
Her mouth crashed against mine, bruising, hungry, alive. For a second, nothing else existed—no threats, no enemies, just the two of us and the heat between us.
She broke first, pressing her face to my collarbone, panting like she’d been running. “God. I really am the dumbest human alive,” she muttered, half-laugh, half-regret.
I caught her chin and made her look at me. “You’re also the hottest. And I need to be inside you.”
Not a line. Not a tease. Just the truth, punched out of me like breath from a blow. My voice went rough around the edges. “I’m not going to make it through the night if I don’t get you under me.”
She huffed a laugh against my skin. “You’re like a feral cat. No wonder you’re not housebroken.”
“Then don’t leave the door open,” I said, teeth against her ear. “Don’t touch me like that and expect me not to crawl into your lap and stay there.”
She shivered. Let the robe fall from her shoulder.
I ran my thumb along the curve of her waist, slow and greedy, memorizing skin like I’d never get to touch it again.
“It doesn’t have to be a big deal, Rubes. You can feel guilty later. Take it to Father—what’s your priest called again? Doesn’t matter. Tell him you’ve sinned. That’s what repenting is for. You have to sin first.”
“Did you flunk out of Catechism?”
“Keep talking dirty to me.”
“You know what Catechism is.”
“I do. Father Sullivan kicked me out for asking why Jesus couldn’t do magic until he was in his thirties.”
“You’re the worst.”
“And yet…”
“He didn’t like you.”
“No. Fuck Father Sullivan. You like me.”
She looked at me, not saying a word. But she was already pulling my hand to her waist, as eager as the first time, the want in her winding tighter under whatever self-control she had left. Igrabbed her ass, lifted her up onto the counter, and pressed her back against the sink until the tap started dripping. She let out a surprised yelp.
“Sorry,” I said, reaching behind her to turn the water off.
She was laughing too hard to care, so I steadied her with a hand at her hip, thumbing the bone there. The robe had slipped to her elbows, blue-edged in the hotel’s spa lighting, baring skin that went all goosebumped in the A/C. She pulled me in between her knees, squeezing me close, and for a second it felt less like sex and more like a dare—how close could she pull me before I broke.
“No, do it again,” she said finally, locking her legs around my hips. Her robe, untied now, gaped open at her chest, nipples peaked and flushed dark against the pale. I ran my hand up her thigh and under the robe, finding her skin hot under my palm.
“You keep making this harder for me,” I whispered, nosing into her neck. The part of me that wanted to be gentle didn’t stand a chance. I wanted the fight, the struggle, wanted her to remember it tomorrow when she shifted in her chair, the marks on her ass a private reminder that I’d been there.
“You were always hard for me,” she shot back, breathless but still sassy.
I let my fingers trace from her hip to the edge of her underwear. There was nothing else under the robe—just this tiny black scrap, tight against her, barely covering her slit. I pulled her forward, making her ride the slippery edge of ceramic, and slid two fingers inside. She was wet. Desperate.
