Page 46 of Wicked God
He hits the spot inside me that turns my bones to jelly, and I shatter, clenching around him, body arching, my cry loud and raw. He follows with a guttural groan, thrusting once, twice more before he pulses, spilling inside me.
I collapse to the tabletop, limp, as he slumps over me, his cheek pressed to my shoulder blade. For a while, neither of us moves. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, blotting out everything except the heat of his body and the pleasant ache blooming in my hips, my thighs. I feel thoroughly, completely claimed.
Eventually, he straightens, pulling me up with him. He tucks himself away, hands gentle as he smooths my skirt.
“Sorry about your underwear,” he murmurs, voice rough, lips grazing my ear. “I’ll buy you a dozen new pairs.”
I laugh, light and a little drunk on endorphins. “But you ruined my favorite pair.”
Alex grins, that wicked dimple denting his cheek. “Think of it as a keepsake.”
He scoops me up, bridal-style, ignoring my protest, and carries me through the apartment, not stopping until we reach the bedroom. He deposits me gently on the bed, then stretches beside me, propping his head on his hand.
“I was serious,” he says, voice low. “You’re mine now. If anyone tries to take you away—”
I nudge him in the ribs. “I don’t need you to fight my battles, Alexander.” He hugs me tighter, burying his nose in my hair. “I know. But part of me wants to anyway.”
The great Alexander Hawthorne, empire-builder and notorious playboy, wants to protect me. Not just from the business vultures or the glare of the press, but from the world, full stop.
I’m flattered.
“Well, the only thing I need from you is to give me another orgasm. No need to shed any blood.”
He laughs—a deep, shaken sound that vibrates through his chest and into mine, bright and reckless as champagne bubbles. “That, love, I can do. I did promise to satisfy your every need.”
He does. Over and over, the night softens and blurs at the edges, until we’re sprawled in the dark together, sweaty and spent, breathing in sync.
It’s magical.
Chapter 22
Alexander
Ihave always been an early bird, eager to get ahead of the day, to seize control before the chaos of the world unfolds. But this morning is different. I lie here, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing yet my body unwilling to move. Olivia’s warmth beside me is a reminder of how much has changed—how muchI’vechanged.
Her breathing is steady, rhythmic, and I find myself matching it, as if trying to sync my restless energy with her calm. I glance at her, careful not to wake her. Her golden hair is loose, spilling across the pillow, and there’s a faint smile on her lips even in sleep. It’s disarming, this quiet intimacy. I’m not used to it, not used to letting someone this close.
I’m supposed to be at work, already pretending to care about morning numbers and projections. The alarm on my phone hasgone off twice, and both times I’ve turned it off and burrowed deeper into the knot of limbs and cotton.
I try to move. I really do. But the second I actually sit up, Olivia shifts, seeking me out, her hand splaying over my chest and dragging me right back down.
“Don’t go,” she mumbles, voice husky and small, and I’m powerless. I press my lips to the hollow beneath her ear, trailing a line down her jaw, over the pulse that thrums at her throat. Her fingers curl against my bicep, nails grazing lightly, just enough to shiver me into goosebumps.
“I have meetings,” I say.
Her smile widens. “They’ll survive without you.”
I answer by rolling, pinning her beneath me, letting my hands map out the curves I already know by heart but can never seem to memorize well enough. Our laughter, low and dangerous, tangles in the sheets with us. When she kisses me, it’s slow and greedy. Indulgent.
Eventually, I force myself up, extricating from her with a groan. She watches me dress, propped up on an elbow, sheet clutched to her chest, but otherwise shameless, like it’s perfectly normal to be half-naked and devastatingly beautiful in the presence of a man losing his mind.
She teases me as I struggle with my cufflinks, one eyebrow cocked at my muttered curses. “You’re late, Mr. Hawthorne.”
I pause, cufflink half-on, and shoot her a look over my shoulder. “You’re not helping, future Mrs. Hawthorne.”
She grins, and I return to the bed, kneeling beside her, letting my hand drift up her calf, to her knee, to her hipbone. I lean in, kissing her one last time at the corner of her smile.
“Dinner tonight,” I promise. “Just us. I’ll cook.”
