Page 29 of Hostile Vows
“Holy shit…” she pants, rocking into my fixed wrist. “Fuuuuuck!”
Her body goes lax and her knees buckle. I secure her waist, hug her close to my chest, and remove my hand, cleaning the fingers I’d used with saliva. She tips her head back to watch me lap up her essence, her exquisite eyes flashing hatred and appreciation.
Her head twists to the side as if she’s ashamed, her pretty lashes lowering to block out the sight of me. Oddly, my heart oscillates as if she’s bumped into it and asked for directions to a happy ending. Except, I can’t promise that my attention won’t stray.
All I know, whether I can understand it or not, is that she’s mine.
Mine today.
Mine forever.
Even when the high fades, she’ll still be my wife.
She punches me away and fixes her leather pants, then stuffs a hand into her hair to rake the messy lengths. “A hand is a hand,” she mutters, folding her arms across her chest as if she didn’t just come all over my fingers.
I snap, latching onto her throat, my temper struggling on a tight leash. “Tell the fucking truth.”
“What do you want me to say? That your fingers felt better than when I do it myself… or when I think about other men and rub my clit until it swells? Is that what you want to hear?”
My mind flickers with violence and the bloodthirsty tendencies of intolerance. I’m falling into an abyss, tumbling into a world where my father had branded me under par. Not quite good enough.
“I just licked your cum from the fingers your wet little pussy ached for.Myfucking fingers. Isn’t that right… Wifey?”
She frowns, the vein in her regal neck thrumming. There’s a moment of silence, a heartbeat where she gazes right into my soul and witnesses the vulnerable tattered ribbons of my past. Every single one of them unattached and withering in the darkest corners of my mind.
It’s in that truce when she offers me the slightest of smiles and whispers, “I won’t admit it.” She swallows hard against my palm and dishes out a mocking smirk. “Because there’s nothing salvageable about craving the asshole who’s single-handedly trying to destroy me.”
“Well, I guess that’s a start.” I draw back my shoulders and take a step away, uncertain how to address her sardonic admission. The way she makes me feel has me doubting who’s the one capable of destroying. “When was the last time you were on a motorcycle?” I casually change the subject to hide how she affects me.
“Last month,” she answers with a shrug.
My brows drift up. “Back in Ireland?”
“You’re not the only one who has a motorcycle, Hotshot.”
Fuck, she’s perfect.
“What is it?”
“A Honda CBR500R.” The corners of her mouth dance to a negligible grin. “I bought it secondhand after I’d saved up enough money to buy a decent one.”
“You’ll feel at home on this Honda, then?” I stroll further away from her toward the motorcycle that has space for two riders. “Here.” I toss a helmet at her, and call out, “I’ll take you back to the wild side, Sin.” When I wink at her, she breaks eye contact and chews her lip. “Let’s go. We have a stop to make before my meeting.” Then I shirk out of my jacket, move behind her, and place it over her shoulders. “It’s safer if you wear a jacket.”
She stares at the gun holstered to my hip and then glances at the draping black leather nestled next to her skin. I shove on the spare helmet, turn away, and mount the motorcycle, beckoning for her to jump on the back, which she does once her arms are stuffed into the too-long sleeves. Having her squished up behind me feels like old times. Her arms snake my waist as her chest presses tight to my spine. A shiver tingles over my scalp. If she so much as breathes near my dick right now, I’ll come hard and fucking fast.
“Ready?” I ask her through the Bluetooth intercom system fitted inside both helmets.
“Yeah—”
“If you scream—” I begin.
“I won’t,” she cuts me off. “Nothing makes me scream anymore.”
“We’ll see about that, Wifey.” I laugh, accelerating out of the parking spot and up the ramp to the automatic gates.
12
ANDRÉ
