Chapter Twenty-Two Saylor
Chapter Twenty-Two
Saylor
When Blue kisses me, it’s like tasting lightning and wildfire, and I want to burn from the inside out.
His hands slide down to my waist, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to remind me he’s done this before and that
this is the same man who would kill men without hesitation. The gentleman who’s been so careful with me is nowhere to be found,
and thank god for that because I’m done pretending I want soft touches and sweet words.
I want the psychopath who ordered his man to split open a corpse and stuff it with flowers like some twisted bouquet.
“If we do this,” he says against my neck, “there’s no going back. You understand that? I don’t do the typical boyfriend and
girlfriend. I don’t do sweet and normal. I don’t do vanilla in anything I do.”
Instead of answering, I grab his shirt and pull him deeper into the gazebo, where the living walls close around us like a
confession booth made of roses and shadows. The moss beneath my feet is thick enough to cushion anything, and when Blue’s
eyes go dark with understanding, I know he’s thinking the same thing.
“I told you to stop holding back,” I say, my hands already working at the buttons of his shirt. “I meant it.”
I see something different . . . the last of his control cracking like ice under pressure. When he kisses me again, there’s
nothing gentle about it. His teeth catch my lower lip, his tongue claiming my mouth with an intensity that makes my knees
weak. This is what I wanted. Not the careful guardian who’s been protecting me, but the predator who kills without hesitation.
His hands are everywhere at once, fingers tangling in my hair to tilt my head back so he can trace his mouth along my throat.
When his teeth graze the sensitive spot where my pulse hammers, I make a sound that would embarrass me if I cared about dignity
anymore.
His hands find my zipper, and the sound of it sliding down seems impossibly loud in the quiet of the gazebo. When he pauses, I grab his wrists and guide them back to my skin.
“Don’t you dare stop,” I whisper against his mouth, gripping his hard cock tenting his pants.
The sound he makes is purely animal . . . raw. It rakes through my insides and blots out the sky. I cling to him and let the
dress fall to my hips.
Blue drops to his knees and runs his hands up my thighs, burying his face in my pussy and inhaling as his tongue licks a long
line from my clit to my needy entrance. I gasp, my hands finding his shoulders for support as his tongue delves deeper, exploring
every fold and crevice with a hunger that leaves me reeling.
He looks up at me, his eyes reflecting the muted light filtering through the rose petals, and the sight of him kneeling before
me, his face buried in my most intimate place, sends a shockwave through me. It’s not just the physical sensation, but the
sheer intensity of his gaze, the unapologetic desire I see.
I feel like I’m falling, spiraling into an abyss where only Blue and this consuming need exist.
He grips my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh as he pulls me closer, his tongue delving deeper, setting off sparks behind
my eyelids. I can barely breathe, my heart pounding so hard it might burst. When he focuses his attention on my clit, sucking
and licking with a skill that leaves me gasping, I know I’m lost.
I tangle my fingers in his hair, holding him against me as I grind against his mouth, chasing the release that hovers just
out of reach. His growl vibrates against my skin.
“Blue,” I manage to gasp.
He knows what I need, and he doesn’t make me wait. He slides two fingers inside me, curling them to hit that perfect spot,
and I shatter.
“Look at me as you cum around my fingers,” he orders.
My orgasm rips through me, leaving me a trembling, breathless mess. But I’m greedy and I want more. So much more.
“Fuck me, Blue. Fuck me.”
He stands, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and looms over me, pupils blown wide and face greedy and unrepentant, the way only men like Blue can be.
He shoves his slacks down just enough to free himself, and it’s almost obscene how ready he is, how the shine on his lips matches the precum wetting the head of his cock.
He pulls out his wallet, then a condom, and within seconds we are both on the ground, him on top of me.
He grabs my thighs, spreads them, and when he thrusts inside it’s slow at first, almost mocking, as if he’s enjoying my helpless
squirming. He leans in, bracing himself with a hand on the moss, the hollow of his throat damp with sweat, a vein pulsing
in time with the force that builds inside us both.
“Mine,” he mutters, lips flaring hot just above my ear. “Fucking mine.”
The word tears something open in me. I can’t think, can’t breathe. I want to claw at his shoulders but I settle for digging
my nails into his back, drawing him deeper, urging him to use me up.
He does exactly that.
He abandons that civilized cadence, gives himself over to the rhythm the animal in him demands—hard, urgent, like he could
fuck the world apart and remake it from scratch.
There’s a brutality to the way he moves, to the way neither of us is even pretending to care about the dirt, the stains, or
how my ass is probably turning green from the friction on the moss.
He presses his lips to mine, biting more than kissing, and I taste blood, maybe mine or his, who cares. All I know is the
way he fills me, how every thrust is like a dare—how far will I let him go, how much of myself am I willing to give up to
this man.
He wraps an arm under my shoulders and slams in deeper, dragging my body up against his. I arch up, helpless, boneless, skin
heated from the humid air and the warmth of his mouth at my jaw. The roses are everywhere, and dirt grinds into my back where
my dress bunches at my waist, but all I see is the dark chaos of his eyes right above me.
All I want is this endless burn of his hard cock as he fucks me through the next orgasm, and into a third.
“This pussy is mine,” he growls, shoving even deeper than I thought possible.
Again and again, he pounds into me, hips snapping as the gazebo seems to tremble with our violence. My pleasure doubles, then fractures into shards of raw sensation. I’ve never been fucked so hard in my life but I’m loving every painfully erotic second.
The world blurs at the edges. All I know is Blue, the shadow and weight of him above me, the taste of his name in my mouth
when I beg for more. He gives it, relentless, until I can barely see through the pulsating in my temples. Until my legs lock
around his hips and I scream into the moss, uncaring that someone—anyone—could be listening.
He bites down on my shoulder, not breaking skin but so close I’ll carry the bruise for weeks. The thought thrills me. I want
to be marked, to be claimed. I want everyone in Grimlock to see what Blue has done to me.
He shudders through his own climax, hips driving so deep and so hard I swear I feel every inch of him in my stomach, my throat,
everywhere. He curses hot against my skin, throbbing inside me and spilling heat, the sound almost a growl.
“Fuck,” he pants. “Fuuuuuck.”
Blue collapses on top of me, and for a minute we just breathe.
I’m pretty sure I have moss in my underwear. Well, what’s left of my underwear. Also rose petals stuck to places that are
going to be awkward to explain to Wren if she does my laundry.
“Well,” I say when I finally catch my breath, “that was definitely not vanilla.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against me. “I did warn you.”
“You did. Although I feel like there should have been a more detailed disclaimer. Something about potential moss stains and
the risk of being permanently ruined for all other men.”
“Permanently ruined?” He lifts his head to look at me, and there’s something almost boyish in his satisfaction. “Good.”
I trace my finger along his jaw, feeling the roughness of his beard. “You know, most people have sex in beds. Like civilized
humans.”
“Most people are boring.” He presses a kiss to my throat, right where he bit me. “Besides, you’re the one who told me to stop
holding back.”
“Fair point. Although I’m pretty sure I have dirt in places that should never see dirt.”
“I’ll help you wash it off later.” The way he says it makes me want him again, which should be impossible given what we just
did.
“Later?” I raise an eyebrow. “Already planning round two?”
“Round two, three, four . . .” He grins against my skin. “I’m a very thorough man, Saylor. When I claim something as mine,
I make sure it stays claimed.”
The possessiveness in his voice makes me clench my thighs together. “Territorial bastard.”
“Guilty as charged.”
He rolls off me finally, but the air in here is so thick and humid that my skin stays slick with sweat. I sit up, trying to
assess the damage to my dress while Blue deals with the condom and adjusts his clothes. My hair has definitely seen better
days, and there are definitely going to be some interesting bruises tomorrow.
“I look like I got in a fight with your garden and lost,” I observe, attempting to finger-comb rose petals out of my hair.
“You look perfect.” Blue’s voice is rough with sincerity. “You look exactly like what you are.”
“Which is?”
“Someone who just figured out she likes getting dirty.”
Before I can respond to that loaded statement, his phone starts ringing. The sound is jarring in our rose-scented bubble,
dragging us back to reality with all the subtlety of a fire alarm.
Blue glances at the screen and frowns. “I should—”
“Take it,” I say, still working on my hair situation. “Don’t mind me.”
He declines the call and helps me to my feet instead, his hands gentle as he checks me over for any actual damage. The phone
immediately starts ringing again.
“Popular man,” I tease, but there’s something in Blue’s energy that makes my stomach tighten.
He declines again. The ringing stops for maybe ten seconds before starting up once more.
“Jesus Christ.” Blue’s jaw clenches as he looks at the screen. “Hans doesn’t call unless—” The phone keeps ringing. “I’m sorry,
I have to take this.”
“Hans?” he answers, and even from where I’m standing I can hear the rapid-fire German coming through the speaker. Blue’s entire demeanor morphs, the satisfied post-sex contentment draining from his face like water through a sieve.
Whatever Hans is saying, it’s not good news.
“How many?” Blue asks. More rapid German. “When?”
I watch Blue’s face darken with each word, his free hand clenching into a fist at his side. The man who was just worshipping
my body with his mouth has disappeared, replaced by someone calculating and deadly.
“No, don’t engage. Pull back and wait for me.” Blue runs his hand through his hair, suddenly looking like he’s juggling a
dozen different worst-case scenarios. “How long do we have?”
Hans says something that makes Blue curse under his breath.
“Pull the car around,” Blue says finally. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
He ends the call and turns to me, his expression apologetic but grim. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“What’s wrong?” The question comes out like I’m a damsel in distress and I hate it.
“Nothing you need to worry about, but I need to handle it personally.” He cups my face in his hands, thumbs stroking my cheekbones.
“I’ll probably miss dinner. Make yourself at home. There’s a library on the second floor, the kitchen’s always open. Wren
will take care of whatever you need.”
“Blue—”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.” He kisses me, hard and quick, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me. “Don’t
wait up.”
And then he’s gone, striding through the greenhouse like he’s already forgotten I exist.
I stand there trying to process the whiplash. Five minutes ago he was inside me, and now he’s running toward whatever emergency
Hans just dropped in his lap.