Page 70 of Misery
"What if I hurt you?" I step closer, close enough to feel his body heat. "What if I'm the one who fucks up? Did you consider that? Or am I only allowed to be the victim in your scenario?"
He doesn't answer.
Or maybe he can't.
I reach for his belt. "I'm taking control. You can leave or you can stay, but I'm done being treated like something broken."
He catches my hands.
For a moment I think he's going to push me away again.
Instead, he pulls me against him, kisses me like he's drowning.
All the careful control shatters.
His hands are everywhere—my hair, my waist, my bare skin.
"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth. "You're going to destroy me."
"Good."
We stumble to the bed, shedding clothes between desperate kisses.
His shirt gets caught on his holster, and we have to stop, laughing breathlessly as he untangles himself.
My jeans stick to my legs, and he has to help peel them off.
It's messy and graceless and perfect.
When skin finally meets skin, we both gasp.
He's warm, solid, scarred in places that tell stories of violence survived.
I trace a particularly nasty mark on his ribs.
"Bar fight in Memphis," he murmurs against my neck. "Guy had a broken bottle."
"Did you win?"
"I'm here, aren't I?"
His mouth finds my throat, my breast, my stomach.
Worship and claiming combined.
I arch under him, past shame or fear.
This is what I want.
What I choose.
My body responds to his touch, coming alive in ways I didn't know it could.
"Are you sure?" He pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "We can stop?—"
"If you stop now, I will literally kill you. And I know exactly where you keep your weapons."
He laughs, dark and rough. "Fair."
