Page 73 of Knuckles & Knives
Marcus responds immediately, his carefully maintained control fracturing as his arms come around me. This kiss is nothing like the tentative exploration we shared before. It’s fierce, claiming, full of all the intensity he usually channels into his work.
His hands fist in my hair as he deepens the kiss, walking me backward until my shoulders hit the wall.
“I’ve wanted this,” he says against my lips, “wanted you, since the moment you walked into that fight club.”
“Even though I was there to destroy everything you’d built?”
“Especially then.” His smile is sharp with appreciation. “Do you have any idea how attractive intelligence is? Watching you manipulate situations, seeing that strategic mind work… it’s intoxicating.”
His hands span my waist, thumbs brushing against my ribs through my shirt. The simple touch sends electricity coursing through me, and I can see in his dark eyes that he notices my reaction, cataloguing it.
“The others see your strength, your courage, your capacity for violence. All true, all admirable, but I see the way your mind works, the way you see patterns and possibilities that others miss.”
“Marcus…” I breathe, but he’s not finished.
“Let me finish.” His forehead rests against mine, dark eyes serious. “I see the woman who took a broken crime family and turned it into an empire. Who earned the loyalty of four dangerous men not through manipulation or fear, but through competence and trust and the kind of fierce protectiveness that makes us all want to be better than we are.”
He sees me in such a different way than the others do.
My hands find his shirt, fingers working at the buttons with trembling urgency.
“And now?” I ask breathlessly as his shirt falls open, revealing the lean muscle beneath.
“Now I want to show you exactly how much I appreciate that brilliant, dangerous mind of yours.”
This time when he kisses me, it’s with focused intensity that makes my knees weak. His hands map the contours of my body with methodical precision, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me arch against him. Every touch is deliberate, calculated to drive me wild.
“You’re analyzing me,” I accuse breathlessly as his mouth finds the sensitive spot below my ear.
“Always,” he murmurs against my skin. “The way your pulse jumps when I touch you here.” His lips brush my throat. “How your breathing changes when I do this.” His teeth graze my earlobe, making me shiver. “I’m memorizing every response, every sound you make.”
“That’s very…” I struggle to form coherent thoughts as his hands slide under my shirt. “Very methodical of you.”
“I’m a methodical man.” His fingers trace the edge of my bra, and I arch into his touch. “When I want something, I study it. Learn everything about it. Master it completely.”
The possessive edge in his voice makes heat pool low in my belly. “Is that what you’re doing? Mastering me?”
“I’m worshipping you,” he corrects, lifting my shirt over my head with reverent care. “There’s a difference.”
When he sees me in just my bra, his control visibly cracks. His hands shake slightly as they trace the curves of my breasts, and his breathing becomes ragged.
“Perfect,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect.”
The praise from this man who notices every flaw, every weakness, every imperfection in everything around him sends pleasure spiraling through me. Before I can respond, his mouth is on my collarbone, trailing fire across my skin.
“Here?” I ask when his lips find a particularly sensitive spot.
“Here,” he confirms, his voice rough. “Surrounded by the evidence of what we accomplished together. What we’re capable of when we combine your strategic instincts with my technical skills.”
His words are punctuated by kisses along my throat, by hands that know exactly how to touch me, by the solid warmth of his body pressed against mine. The screens around us continue their digital symphony of destruction, Richard Sterling’s empire crumbling while we claim our victory in the most primal way possible.
“The others—” I start, but Marcus’s mouth finds mine again, cutting off my protest.
“Are exactly where they should be,” he murmurs against my lips. “Dom’s recovering, Axel’s finally sleeping peacefully, Kieran, if he’s awake, should be handling the political fallout. This is our time.”
He’s right. For once, we’re not in crisis mode, not responding to threats or planning defenses. We’re victorious, alone, and free to explore this connection that’s been building between us for months.
When Marcus’s hands find the clasp of my bra, I don’t stop him. The garment falls away, and his sharp intake of breath makes me feel powerful, desired.
