27. Malachi
Chapter 27
Malachi
I don’t know how the fuck I got here.
One minute, I’m fighting, clawing my way out of every interaction with him, and the next, I’m drowning in the heat of his mouth, in the weight of his body pressing against mine.
I should be fighting. I should be pushing him away, telling him to fuck off like I always do. But I can’t. Not when his lips are on mine, not when his hands are gripping my waist like he needs me as much as I need him.
It’s wrong. Christ, it’s so fucking wrong. He kidnapped me. He’s the reason I’m here, locked up in this estate like I’m some prized possession. But none of that matters right now, because I can feel him unraveling beneath my hands. And I like it.
Connor shifts suddenly, gripping my hips as he flips us over in one smooth motion. A gasp escapes me as my back hits the mattress, then he’s above me—his green eyes dark and focused, his body pinning mine down just enough to make my head spin.
“Fuck,” I whisper, my fingers gripping his shirt.
He smirks, dipping his head to press a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of my mouth. “That’s all you’ve got to say, mo stóirín ?”
My retort dies on my tongue when his mouth trails lower, skimming along my jaw and throat. I suck in a sharp breath, tilting my head slightly to give him more access before I even realize I’m doing it. His lips curl against my skin like he knows he’s got me—like he’s been waiting for me to stop fighting this.
I want the way he’s looking at me like I’m something he can’t have but refuses to let go of. I want the way his hands are gripping me, like he needs to feel me to remind himself that I’m real.
My hands slide up his arms, gripping his biceps, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. I realize then that he’s holding himself back and letting me set the pace, giving me the chance to stop this before it goes any further.
I fucking don’t.
Instead, I lift my hips slightly, pressing up against him, testing. His breath shudders, and I feel the way his body reacts instantly, how his grip tightens on my waist.
“Careful, Babyface,” he mutters. “You’re playin’ with fire right now and I’m already strugglin’ to hold myself back.”
I smirk, but it falters when he presses down, pinning me completely. His lips find my throat again, teeth scraping lightly against my skin, and I gasp, my fingers digging into his arms.
I don’t recognize this version of myself. The one who isn’t pushing him away. The one who isn’t fighting him at every turn. For the first time in my life, I let myself want, and it’s fucking terrifying.
“You like this, don’t you?” Connor murmurs against my skin, his hands sliding under my shirt, fingers tracing along my ribs. “The way I touch you. The way I see you.”
I won’t ever admit he’s right. So I do the only thing I can—I pull him back down and kiss him again. This time, it’s not cautious or hesitant. It’s hungry. I’m hungry.
For him.
For this.
Connor groans against my mouth and grinds against me. The heat between us is unbearable and suffocating, but I don’t want it to stop. His tongue brushes against mine teasingly and I match him, refusing to be anything less than what he needs right now.
He wants me, and fuck, if I don’t want him just as badly. I feel like I’m coming apart under him, my body thrumming with a heat I can’t control. My fingers clutch at his shirt, desperate, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere left for him to go.
I’ve spent weeks fighting him, pushing back at every turn, telling myself this was nothing more than captivity, manipulation, a game of power I refused to lose.
But I’m losing now. Or maybe I’m winning. Because I can feel the way his breath is ragged against my skin, and I know I’m the one unraveling him.
“Malachi,” he mutters, his voice a rough growl against my throat. His lips drag along my skin, slow and torturous, his fingers digging into my hips like he’s barely holding himself together.
“Connor,” I gasp, arching up against him. “More.”
He stills, and for a second, there’s nothing but our heavy breathing, the heat between us, thick and suffocating. Then he lifts his head, his green eyes locking onto mine. “What’d you just say?”
I swallow hard, but I don’t back down. My body is already betraying me, my skin burning under his touch, my breath coming too fast. There’s no hiding from him now.
I meet his gaze, my hands still gripping his hair. “I said I want more.”
I see the precise moment the restraint he’s been holding onto shatters like glass. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, and his lips are crashing back down onto mine.
This time, there’s nothing careful about it. There’s no teasing, no patience, just raw fucking need. His tongue pushes into my mouth, taking, claiming, his body pressing me down like he’s making sure I don’t go anywhere.
I wouldn’t even if I could.
I whimper against his lips, my hands clutching at his back, pulling him closer, closer, because no matter how much I get, it’s not enough.
He groans, the sound vibrating through me. “You don’t even know what you’re askin’ for,” he mutters against my lips, his breath hot and furious.
I shake my head, panting. “Don’t care.”
His eyes flash, his jaw clenching, then he’s kissing me again, bruising and demanding like he’s trying to teach me a lesson I already fucking learned.
That I’m his. That I’ve always been his and I don’t fucking care about anything except the way he feels against me, the way he kisses me like I’m something he’s been starving for.
His hands move, slipping under my shirt, dragging the fabric up my skin, and I let him. I let him take what he wants because I want it too.
His lips break from mine just long enough to yank the shirt over my head and toss it somewhere behind him. The cold air prickles against my skin, hardening my nipples, but it’s gone as soon as his hands are on me again, fingers trailing over my ribs like he’s memorizing every inch of me.
I should be embarrassed, maybe even ashamed of how easily I give in, but I’m not. Not when it’s him. Not when this is what I’ve spent weeks denying myself.
I reach up before I can think better of it, fisting my hands in his shirt. “Off,” I mutter, tugging at the fabric. “Need to feel you.”
Connor smirks and he pulls back just enough to sit up, yanking the fabric over his head in one fluid motion. The second it’s gone, my breath catches.
I’ve seen him shirtless once before, but this is different. This is up close and mine to touch.
His chest is broad, every muscle defined, and his left arm is covered in ink. I already knew about the tattoos—had spent more time than I’d ever admit staring at them, memorizing the way they curled over his arms and across his knuckles—but now I can touch them.
So I do.
I drag my fingers along the lines of his ink, tracing the crowned skull on his neck, watching the way his jaw tightens as I do. Then I run my fingers along the demonic woman coiled over his bicep. His breathing stutters when I touch him, and something about that makes my stomach twist in the best fucking way.
He’s so perfect.
I don’t shy away because I want to touch him. I want to know what he feels like beneath my hands. I want to feel him, want to know every mark on his skin, every ridge of muscle, every scar.
Connor watches me, his green eyes dark and his breathing uneven as I drink him in. He doesn’t move or rush me, he just lets me explore.
I should make some bratty comment, but the words don’t come. All I can do is touch him, my hands skimming across his shoulders, down his biceps, over the rough lines of ink that mark him for who he is.
I want to mark him too.
The thought makes my stomach flip and makes my fingers curl slightly against his skin in reflex. Connor’s breath stutters at this, his muscles flexing under my touch. “Enjoyin’ yourself?”
I glance up at him, my lips curling into something that almost feels like a smirk. “Yeah.”
His brows lift slightly like he wasn’t expecting me to admit it so easily, but he doesn’t say anything and his hand tightens on my hips. I keep tracing him, my fingers moving back up, dragging over his chest, his collarbone, his throat. He lets me, his breath coming heavier now as he continues to watch me.
I lift my gaze to his, my chest tight and my pulse still hammering. “You keep saying I’m yours.”
“Because you are,” he answers immediately.
I drag my hands up his sides and let my thumbs brush over his nipples. “But does that mean you’re mine?”