Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
The words slam into me harder than a punch.
The room feels smaller, the walls closing in with every breath.
“Don’t twist this on me,” I snap back, taking a step toward her.
“I didn’t force you into that room. I didn’t force you into my bed.
You came to me. Again and again. And you came, again and again and agai—”
Her hands shake as she gestures at me, voice cracking under the weight of her anger. “And every time I did, it tore me apart, Sin! Because I didn’t know what was real anymore. Because I was standing there loving a man who might have had my brother killed!”
The air between us is electric, fury, guilt, and grief all tangled together. I don’t know whether I am ecstatic at hearing she loves me or furious at hearing her say I killed Marcus. My voice drops, low and rough. “I did not kill Marcus!”
Her eyes flash, tears spilling over as her rage ignites.
“I know!” she screams, the sound raw, breaking through the Chapel like a gunshot.
“I know it wasn’t you.” She throws her hands in the air in frustration.
“It was him. My captain! Fucking Rourke murdered him like he was nothing. And I’ve been living with that, thinking it was you.
Hating you while falling for you at the same fucking time, and I hate you for it!
” The confession detonates between us, but before I can respond, her hand flies.
The slap cracks across my jaw, snapping my head sideways. For a second, my world goes red.
My brothers would have paid with blood for a move like that.
But this is her.
My hands grip her face harshly, and I slam my lips to hers.
It’s not soft. It’s not calm. It’s punishing, furious, and full of passion.
We stumble toward the Chapel table, my hands shift to her hips.
The crash of my laptop hitting the floor, papers scattering everywhere, barely registers.
All I can think about is her—this woman who’s turned my world inside out.
I shove her back against the table, her ass hitting the edge with a dull thud. She lets out a startled breath that turns into a gasp when I grab her shirt in my fist, hauling her closer. The sound of her badge clinking against my chest is a goddamn sin in itself.
“Sin…” she whispers, her hands flat against my cut.
“Don’t.” My voice comes out rough, dark. “You think I don’t know how wrong this is? I swore I’d never fuck anyone in this Chapel.”
She blinks, chest heaving. “Then why—”
“Because I can’t not,” I snarl, my hand sliding down to her belt.
“Because you’ve already made a liar out of me, wildcat.
” My mouth crashes onto hers again, and she tastes like heat and defiance.
I grab her hip, spin her, and lift her onto the edge of the Chapel table.
She gasps as her gun belt slips loose, thudding to the floor.
My hands find her waistband, and she hesitates just long enough for our eyes to lock before she lifts her hips in silent surrender.
I drag her pants and panties down in one rough pull, yanking her boots off, then pull her pants and panties off behind them, leaving her police shirt on, half-buttoned, the hem brushing her thighs. The sight of her like this—part cop, part wildcat—punches the air from my lungs.
“Holy fuck,” I mutter, my voice low and reverent, like a prayer I don’t deserve to say.
She smirks, even through her ragged breaths. “You gonna arrest me for corrupting your holy ground, President?”
I huff out something between a growl and a laugh, stepping between her knees. “If this is corruption, I’m guilty as sin.”
My jeans hit the floor, leaving me bare except for my cut and tank.
Her hands slide up my chest, under my leather and cotton, her nails scraping my skin until I swear I might lose it.
I grab her wrists, lay her back, and pin them above her head against the table’s edge.
“Don’t move,” I rasp, my voice shredded.
“I want to see you lose control in my Chapel.”
“Then make me,” she fires back, her voice hoarse and shaking.
I line up, the head of my cock brushing against her heat. She jerks, instinctively pressing forward, trying to take me in, but I pull back just enough to make her whimper.
“You want this?” I ask, voice low, dangerous. “You want me to break every rule for you?”
Her throat bobs as she nods.
“You realize how twisted this is?” I rasp. “A cop and an outlaw. In my Chapel.”
She holds my gaze, unflinching. “Then stop.”
I laugh, low and dangerous. “Not a fucking chance.” I grab her hips and pull her flush against me, between my legs.
My jeans scrape rough against my ankles, my cut hanging open.
She fists the front of my tank and shoves me back until I’m the one hitting the edge of the table.
Then she climbs onto it, straddling me, taking control.
Her hands go to my cut, fingers curling in the leather.
“You still keeping this place sacred, Pres?” she whispers against my ear, biting my jaw.
“Not tonight.” My hands slide under her shirt, finding the heat of her skin. “Tonight, it’s holy for another reason.”
She grinds down against me, and I swear I see stars. “Christ, Victoria…” I hiss her real name, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises.
“I thought you didn’t fuck in here,” she taunts, breathless, her hips slowly rocking against me.
A low growl reverbs through me, and a shudder runs down my spine as I try to keep my shit together. “I didn’t,” I growl, grabbing her neck and tilting her face up to mine. “I didn’t fuck anyone who mattered.”
Her eyes flare, heat flashing through the anger.
I use the distraction to push her back down against the table, switching our positions in a single move.
She gasps as her back hits the cool surface, papers crinkling beneath her.
I shove my hand on her stomach and push her knees apart.
The sight of her, half dressed in her uniform, legs spread, eyes wild, does something dark to me.
“Jesus Christ, look at you,” I mutter, sliding a hand up her inner thigh. “The fucking enemy. And I can’t stay away.”
She grabs my collar, dragging me down until our noses almost touch. “Then don’t,” she says, defiant, breath hot.
I don’t hesitate, thrusting into her hard enough to knock the breath out of us. I let out an animalistic groan as her hands grip the edge of the table. Her cry fills the Chapel, echoing off the walls.
My body folds over hers, one hand braced beside her head, the other locked around her thigh, dragging it high to open her wider for me. The second I push in again, I groan low, deep, like the sound is torn from somewhere primal.
I start to move. Slow. Measured.
But every thrust carries the weight of everything I’m breaking.
A punishment.
A confession.
A goddamn prayer.
The leather of my cut scrapes against her shirt, branding her in my patch, my sin. Her buttons clink with every shift, her badge catching the light like it’s mocking me, a cop, in my Chapel, under me. And I’ve never been fucking harder in my life.
“This is blasphemy.” I growl against her throat, lips dragging over the pulse hammering just beneath the skin.
She arches into me, a wicked smirk curling at her mouth even as her breath stutters. “Then damn us both.”
Her words snap something in me. I slam into her harder, teeth gritted, jaw clenched so tight I swear it might crack. The table rattles beneath us, a steady percussion to the skin-on-skin chaos building between our bodies.
“You want damnation?” I snarl. “You fucking got it.”
I bring my hand up, tightening it around her throat, like she did to me.
Her eyes widen, not in shock, but with lust as her mouth opens to gasp for the lack of air.
Her hips snap forward as I bury myself in her again and again.
Every thrust, a vow shattered. Every moan from her lips, a command I can’t ignore.
She writhes under me, her badge cold against my chest, her body fire beneath my hands.
“Sin,” she gasps my name like it’s salvation, but there’s nothing holy about this.
“This is why I broke my rule,” I grit, grinding deep enough to make her toes curl. “Because no other woman’s ever made me this fucking unhinged.”
Her breath catches as I tighten my hand around her throat. “Then… be unhinged,” she pants. “Be wrecked. Just don’t stop.”
It’s the approval I need.
Loosening my grip on her throat, she gasps for air, and I grab her hips, tilting her just right, and my hand slides into her hair, grabbing her tight-as-fuck bun, and I wrench it free, pulling her hair loose. She gasps as my fingers take hold of the strands so tightly that it has to hurt.
“This isn’t you, not when you’re with me.
Do you understand?” I grip her hair tighter, yanking her head back, while thrusting in deep.
Her eyes roll back as I hit her deep and fast. She moans some kind of measly response, and I pull her hair again.
“Answer me, wildcat!” My rhythm turns punishing, raw, relentless, the kind of fucking that leaves bruises and burns into memory.
She whimpers, her hips lifting to meet mine with a needy little grind. “I prefer my hair down too…” Her breath hitches on a teasing smile. “I like it when you pull it.”
That grin.
Fuck me, that grin.
It’s pure sin, slamming into my chest like a sledgehammer while my cock is buried so deep inside her that we blur together until there’s no line between us.
My grip tightens in her hair, the silken strands slipping between my fingers as I yank gently, enough to draw that gasp I crave, the one that makes her eyes flutter and her thighs clamp tighter around my hips.
She trembles beneath me. Sweat slick between us. Her breath comes in short, broken pants. And the sounds she makes, the soft whimpers, the breathy cries, the little pleas she doesn’t even know she’s whispering, they crawl inside me, wrap around my spine, and pull.