Chapter Twenty-Eight Blue #2
Her hands find my jacket lapels, pulling me closer as the kiss deepens into something that makes my head spin. When she bites
gently at my lower lip, I groan against her mouth and back her toward the solid stone of the tower’s central column.
“Here?” she whispers against my throat, breathless.
“Here.”
The massive clock face dominates one side of the observation platform, its glass surface rising above us like a wall. The
thick stone ledge at its base, where enormous Roman numerals are carved deep into the weathered stone, provides the perfect
height. When I lift her onto this ledge, the clock’s bulk shields us from the wind while she wraps her legs around my waist
and pulls me between her thighs.
Her dress bunches around her hips as my hands find bare skin, and when she arches against me, I can feel her heat through
thin fabric. The sound she makes when I trace my fingers along her inner thigh gets lost in the wind, but I feel it vibrate
through her chest pressed against mine.
“Someone could see us,” she says, but she’s already working at my shirt buttons.
“Let them.”
She shoves my shirt open and buttons ping off across the stone. My hands push up her dress, thumbs sliding the humid crease
of her thigh high to her panties, which are nothing more than a black scrap—already damp, already begging. I pull them aside
with two fingers, taking a moment to slide my thumb against her, slow and deliberate, smearing slickness over her clit. Her
hips roll, needy, clamping tighter around my waist.
She fumbles my belt and undoes it. Instead of pushing my pants down, she peels the belt free and gives it a tug, grinning
at me like a dare. I snatch it from her, wrap it twice around my fist, and double it back, then slide the loop over her neck.
She shudders, lips parted, and tips her head into my hand. The wind whips her hair around her face, tangling it in the leather.
She’s still got my cock pressed to her through my pants, grinding and frantic, but I won’t let her have it yet. I tighten
the belt, just enough, and use it to tilt her head up so I can bite along her jaw, her shoulder, the pale wing of her collarbone.
She gasps, and I feel the sound travel up the column of her throat, the pulse against my palm.
“Blue—” she starts, breathless, but I cut her off with my mouth, pressing my tongue between her teeth until she yields and opens, hands raking through my hair and pulling me so close I can barely breathe.
I tighten the belt just a little more, and she whimpers, the sound barely escaping. Her attention goes glassy, pupils blown
wide as the expansive sea, and her hands switch from grasping to clawing, catching on the nape of my neck, the cords of muscle
at my shoulder.
She chokes down her own noises, biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to bleed. I can feel it, the way her breathing
staggers, shallow and desperate. She lets go completely, trusting the pressure of my hand and the tension of the belt to keep
her upright. I’ll hold her for as long as she’ll let me.
“Please,” she says, one syllable, shaky, and I let go, not of her, but of the discipline holding me back. I unzip, freeing
myself, and she grabs me, guiding my cock against herself without hesitation. Somehow I find a moment of clarity to reach
for a condom in my wallet, but how I composed myself long enough to slip it on my dick, I don’t know.
She yanks me in with her thighs as I line up and drive in, slow at first, then deeper. She’s so ready for it she’s shaking,
hands still fighting for leverage, for a way to hold on to me or the world as I fill her up, every inch earning a new sound
from the back of her throat. I brace one forearm against the clock face, palm flat on chilled glass just above her head, and
thrust forward in short, eager strokes. Her dress is rucked high around her waist, dark fabric pooling beneath her, and I
swear she looks like something painted, something baroque and religious, framed in stone and light.
She keeps her eyes on me, unblinking, drinking in every flicker of pleasure I let show. Her smile goes sloppy and fades, lips
raw from my teeth, but she never stops moving, hips canting hard as I piston into her. I want to savor it, stretch it out,
but she tastes like wind and ocean, and it’s all I can do to keep from flying apart on the spot.
I take hold of the belt again and twist, the leather digging into my fist, and she arches, throat gleaming with sweat or fog or both.
Her breathing becomes shallow, strained, and I watch her pupils dilate as the pressure builds.
One twist too much and I could crush her windpipe.
One second too long and she goes from gasping to unconscious.
She knows this. I can see it in her eyes—the exact moment she realizes I’m holding her life in my hands along with the belt.
And instead of fear, instead of panic, she lets her head fall back farther, giving me more access to her throat. Offering
herself completely.
Her pulse batters against the leather, frantic and wild, and I feel every beat through the belt. Her lips part but no sound
comes out now, just the desperate draw of air through her constricted throat. Her hands claw at my shoulders, not to push
me away but to pull me closer, even as I can tell her vision starts to blur at the edges.
This is the line. Right here. One more twist and I cross from lover to killer.
Her gaze blacks out for a moment and she is all nerve endings, nothing left but the direct line between her cunt and the sound
my hips make when I bottom out. There is no world below us—just our pressed bodies and the fine line between pleasure and
death.
I loosen the belt just enough to let air rush back into her lungs, and she gasps, the sound raw and desperate. But her eyes
never leave mine, never show anything but complete faith that I’ll know exactly when to stop.
She trusts me. She fucking trusts me and that truth makes my cock harder than it’s ever been before.
She comes without warning and with no inhibition, clamping around me so hard I have to grit my teeth and grunt into her hair
to keep myself from spilling right then. She chokes out a sob, raw and unselfconscious.
I keep thrusting, greedy now, the pressure gone from the belt but my fist still knotted in her hair. I sink into her and she
holds me there, ankles crossed behind my back, locked tight. I come—white-hot, atomic—bursting behind my ribs all the way
to my teeth, and I must make some kind of sound because she laughs, breathless and spent, and echoes it back at me. We don’t
move. My hand releases the belt and instead holds the smooth arch of her neck, thumb resting on her rapid heartbeat.
When we finally separate, she stays sitting on the ledge while I deal with the condom and fix my clothes. My shirt is probably ruined—half the buttons are scattered across the clock tower platform—but I don’t give a damn.
“That was . . .” she starts, then trails off, laughing softly.
“Yeah.”
She slides down from the ledge, smoothing her dress back into place. Her hair is a mess, her lips swollen, and there’s already
a faint mark blooming on her throat where the belt pressed against her skin. She looks thoroughly debauched, and the sight
makes me want to push her back up against that clock face and start all over again.
But more than that, she looks content. Satisfied in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the fact
that she let me put a belt around her throat and never once doubted I’d keep her safe.
No one has ever given themselves to me that completely before.
“We should probably head back,” she says, putting my shirt back on for me since I can’t manage it with the missing buttons.
I watch her fingers work, so careful and domestic, and something twists in my chest. Not long ago I was a retired killer living
alone in a house full of ghosts. Now I’m standing in a clock tower while a woman I’m falling in love with fixes my clothes
after the most intense sex of my life.
Jay was right. I am in love with her. Completely, irrevocably, dangerously in love.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it just makes me want to kill anyone who even thinks about hurting her.