Chapter 37 #2
I grab his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric. “Show me,” I demand, my voice hoarse with emotion. “Show me what that means.”
Dark, possessive fire ignites in his eyes. The last thread of his control snaps. His answer to my demand is not in words. He hooks his fingers in the collar of my shirt and rips it open, buttons scattering across the floor.
Cool air hits my skin, but it’s replaced by the heat of his mouth crashing down on my neck, his teeth scraping a path to my collarbone.
His hands are everywhere, urgent and memorizing, as if committing my body to memory after being starved of it.
He lifts me onto the kitchen counter as if I weigh nothing, pushing my legs apart with his hips, slotting himself between them.
We’re a tangle of desperate hands and frantic mouths, clawing at belts and zippers until we are skin to skin.
In the harsh kitchen light, the small metal bar through the upper side of his cock gleams as he positions himself at my entrance.
“I need you now,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
He enters me in one powerful, claiming thrust. I cry out as the piercing drags against my inner walls, a friction of exquisite pleasure-pain that makes my vision go white at the edges.
“I wish they were listening,” he whispers, his rhythm not faltering. “The cops. The DA. I want them to know.” He thrusts deeper, a possessive, punishing movement. “I want them to know that this is what they can never touch. That you are mine.”
“Don’t stop,” I command, wrapping my legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He angles his hips, stroking the piercing along that one spot until the pressure builds with shocking speed. The world has dissolved into pure sensation. There is only this. Only him.
“Look at me,” he demands, his voice ragged.
I force my eyes open to see his locked on mine, stripped of all artifice.
I see the artist, the killer, and the man who was terrified of losing me.
I see all of him. A silent promise passes between us, an understanding forged in blood and sealed in this collision of bodies. It’s the final push I need.
“Calloway…” My words dissolve into a moan as he shifts.
“Let go,” he commands, his voice raw and strained. “Come apart for me, Jiya.”
The wave crashes, and I bite into his shoulder to keep from screaming, tasting the salt and sweat of his skin. He follows a moment later, his body going rigid, a guttural groan torn from his throat as he pours himself into me.
We stay locked together, breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, our heartbeats slowing in the quiet kitchen.
“I love you too,” I whisper against his mouth, the words feeling both foreign and like the truest thing I’ve ever said. “I love you so much, my beautiful killer.”
He smiles against my lips. “A matching set, then.”
My legs tremble, still weak from our encounter. Calloway slides down, his hands steadying my thighs as I sit perched on the edge of the counter.
“What are you—” The question dies in my throat as his face dips between my legs.
His hot breath fans across my sensitive skin, making me shiver. I’m a mess—slick with sweat and our combined release—but the way he looks at me, I might as well be a five-course meal.
Calloway’s eyes lock with mine. “I want to taste us together.”
His first lick is tentative, exploratory. I gasp, my hand flying to his hair, not sure if I want to push him away or pull him closer. The second lick is bolder, his tongue flat and hot against me.
“Oh God,” I breathe, my head falling back against the cabinet with a thud.
He hums against me, the vibration a jolt to my overwrought nerves.
Each stroke is deliberate, cleaning away the evidence of our passion while stoking the fire anew.
His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider.
I risk looking down. The sight of his blond head between my legs, his shoulders flexing as he works, nearly undoes me.
His eyes flick up, catching me watching, and his lips curve into a wicked smile against my flesh.
“You taste like mine,” he murmurs, the possessiveness in his voice making my stomach flip.
His tongue circles my most sensitive spot. I’m still so raw from before that each touch borders on too much, yet somehow not enough.
“Cal, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he says before diving back in.
My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him against me as pleasure builds again. When he slides two fingers inside me while sucking, I come apart with a sharp cry, my thighs clamping around his head as waves of pleasure crash over me.
My legs are still trembling when he carries me to the shower. The water pressure is so good, hammering away the last of the tension from my shoulders.
“Expensive shower,” I tease, watching rivulets cascade down his sculpted chest.
Calloway’s mouth quirks. “Society perks.” He reaches for the shampoo, pouring a generous amount into his palm. “Turn around.”
I obey, sighing as his fingers work through my hair, massaging my scalp with just the right pressure.
“I could get used to this,” I murmur, eyes closed under the spray.
His hands still for a fraction of a second. “I hope you do.”
Wrapped in a ridiculously soft towel, I follow him to the bedroom. I collapse onto the crisp white sheets, utterly spent and completely at peace.
He slides in beside me, tracing patterns on my arm. “You know what this means, right? You’re one of us. For real, now.”
The gravity in his voice makes me pause. “Does that mean matching bowling shirts? Because I’m not sure I could pull that off.”
His lips twitch despite the seriousness. “It means you’re protected. But it also means you need to be careful. You’re on the radar now. You’ll have to lie low for a while.”
I snort. “Like you’re lying low?”
“Do as I say, not as I do.” His expression turns rueful.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest. “God, what a disaster we were at Marcel’s. The bin, the garbage disposal, Lazlo getting stabbed…”
“I call it a learning experience.” His fingers find a ticklish spot on my ribs.
“Hey!” I swat his hand away. “I seem to remember you were the one who killed a man with a letter opener through the eye. Very subtle.”
“I was improvising,” he says, unrepentant. “Besides, you poisoned him.”
“So did you!” I poke his chest. “We’re really a mess, aren’t we?”
“A beautiful mess.” His expression softens again. He captures my hand, bringing it to his lips. “I’ve never felt like this with anyone else.”
“Me neither. I always thought I’d be alone.”
“And now?”
“Now I know there’s someone just as fucked up as I am.” I grin, but the joke falls away as I look into his eyes. “Someone who sees all of me and loves me anyway.”
His hand slides up to cup my cheek. “I love you, Jiya Kline. God help me, but I do.”
The weight of those words sinks in, warming places inside me I thought were frozen forever. I turn my face to kiss his palm.
“I love you, too, Calloway Frost.” I smile against his skin. “Even if you have ridiculous taste in music.”
He frowns. “My music taste is impeccable.”
“You have three Backstreet Boys albums.”
“They’re cultural touchstones.”
“They’re for teenage girls.”
“Say that again, and I’ll push you off this bed.”
I laugh, rolling on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head. “I’d like to see you try.”