Page 58 of The Viper
She pushed me onto my back, straddling me, her eyes dark with lust, and lowered herself onto me, taking me deep in one slow motion. She rode me hard, her hips grinding, her breasts bouncing with each movement, and I gripped her ass, guiding her, thrusting up to meet her.
"Fuck, Lexi," I growled, my hands roaming her body, pinching her nipples, slapping her ass lightly as she moved.
She leaned down, her hair falling around us like a curtain, and bit my shoulder, her teeth sinking in just enough to sting, sending a jolt straight to my cock.
We flipped again, me on top, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, thrusting deep and hard, our bodies slapping together in a rhythm that was pure instinct. She wrapped her legs around me, pulling me closer, her heels digging into my back, urging me on.
I kissed her neck, biting down, leaving marks that would need covering tomorrow, but I didn't care. She was mine, and I wanted the world to know it.
She came again, her body convulsing, her pussy clenching around me, and I followed, spilling inside her, the release so intense it left me shaking.
We lay there, tangled and sweaty, our breaths ragged, the room smelling of sex.
When we finally caught our breath, she rolled onto her side, her head on my chest, and asked, "What are we going to do?"
I stared at the ceiling, my arm around her, and answered honestly. "I have no fucking idea."
21
LEXI
The next morning, sunlight poured through the blinds like it had something to prove. The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made you hear your own pulse.
Hannah must have come home sometime in the night—her shoes were by the door, her jacket draped over a chair—but she was already gone again. Her coffee mug had vanished, her phone charger, too, though she’d left a note in her tidy handwriting:
Press still circling. Don’t go anywhere without Lucas.
Of course, she underlinedwithout Lucastwice.
He was already outside, pacing the porch, phone pressed to his ear, that soldier stillness coiled tight beneath the surface. I watched him through the kitchen window while the espresso machine hissed. Broad shoulders, black T-shirt, jeans—casual on anyone else, tactical on him. He scanned the treeline even as he spoke, eyes always moving, assessing. It hit me then how different our worlds were.
We had the day off from shooting—a mercy disguised as scheduling luck—but rest wasn’t in either of our skill sets. The silence felt like a dare.
I needed to breathe something that wasn’t fear.
So, I called Tabitha McCullough, my Charleston realtor, before I could talk myself out of it.
“Tell me you’ve got something private,” I said. “No neighbors. No gawkers. Something that feels like … mine.”
She laughed, the practiced kind. “Honey, everything on Kiawah has neighbors, but I have one that comes close. You’ll want to see it in person.”
“Text me the address,” I said.
Lucas walked in just as I ended the call. “What was that?”
“Something normal,” I said, setting my cup down. “I’m going to look at a house.”
He blinked once. “You’re house-shopping now?”
“Apparently, chaos inspires nesting instincts.”
He folded his arms. “Lexi?—”
“Don’t. You’re coming with me. Hannah said so.” I gave him a look that dared him to argue. He didn’t.
Two hours later, we were following Tabitha’s white convertible down a winding road on Kiawah Island. The island unspooled in ribbons of sunlight and shadow, palmettos glinting like polished silver.
“This isn’t smart,” he said finally, his voice a low rumble over the hum of the engine.
