Page 6 of Burned in Stone
“Fifth,” I say, the word clipped. I swing my leg over the side, the bike groaning under the shift. My hand finds hers. I lace our fingers together and pull her toward the concrete elevator bay. The contact is a jolt, a reminder of her skin under my hands, her mouth moving against mine. The promise I made her hangs between us.This isn’t over.She can get skittish all she wants, but it’s my fucking mantra now.
The elevator doors slide open with a quiet ding. Empty car. I pull her inside and the doors shut, sealing us in the small, mirrored space.
“Cash,” she starts, her voice laced with an apology I don’t want to hear. “About before, I?—”
I don’t let her finish. She’s going to try to rationalize, pretend what we had was just heat and nothing more.
Fuck that.
I slam the button for the fifth floor and push her back against the cool steel wall. My mouth crashes down on hers.
It’s not gentle. It’s a reminder. A promise. I’ve been patient, I’ve waited, but I’m done waiting. I swallow her gasp. My hand tangles in her wild red hair, tilting her head back to give mebetter access. This is mine. She is mine. And this is just the beginning.
The elevator dings on the ground floor. We spring apart just as the doors open. An elderly couple shuffles in. The woman gives us a knowing smile that makes Mercy’s cheeks go pink.
“Young love,” the woman whispers to her husband, loud enough for us to hear. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
The husband looks between us. His eyes clock my cut and the tattoos on both Mercy’s and my arms. He turns away with a disapproving grunt.
I catch Mercy’s eye and bite back a grin at her mortified expression. The couple gets off on the first floor. The second the doors close, I have her back against the wall.
“Where were we?” I ask, nipping at her bottom lip.
“Cash, we shouldn’t?—”
“We should,” I correct, my mouth trailing down her throat to that spot where I marked her earlier. “We absolutely fucking should.”
Her protest dies on a soft moan as I run the tip of my tongue over the bruised patch of skin.
Mine.
The possessive thought hits me hard, unexpected in its intensity. I’ve wanted plenty of women. Taken what I wanted, given them pleasure, stayed in control. But this? This feels like something I can’t quite get a grip on. Something that might get a grip on me instead.
I shove the thought aside. I’m in control here. Always.
The elevator dings again—fifth floor, maternity ward—and we break apart, both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her hair mussed, and she looks thoroughly kissed.
Perfect.
“Later,” I promise as the doors open and she puts a safe amount of space between us.
The waiting area is packed with Stoneheart family. Bones paces a groove in the linoleum, muttering under his breath about how long labor is supposed to take. Duck sits stoically in the corner, his old lady Maggie knitting something tiny and yellow. Hawk stands by the windows like a sentinel, phone in hand, checking for updates from Axel in the delivery suite.
We try to look casual as we approach the group, but I’m pretty sure everyone can tell we’ve been up to something.
“Any news?” Mercy asks, settling beside Kya.
“Still waiting.” Kya’s voice drops. “Interesting entrance you two made.”
I grab the top magazine from the stack and pretend to read.
Mercy’s cheeks go pink. “We just happened to arrive at the same time.”
“Uh-huh.” Kya shoots me a look, and I suddenly find an article about hospital food innovations fascinating. “And I suppose that hickey on your neck is from running into a door?”
Mercy’s hand flies to her throat. “Kya!”
“I’m just saying, if you two are going to sneak around, you might want to invest in some concealer.”
