CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CASH
Ryker was right. This is fucking karma.
What are the goddamn chances that the one woman I’ve gone on and on about—for no other reason than to beat others to the punch, which, admittedly, was an asshole endeavor for me to undertake—was her sister, who she has a sordid past with?
Although maybe those voodoo pianists were on my side after all because thank fuck Flora turned me down.
I never thought I’d see the day when I loathed who I was, when I regretted living the life handed to me.
But the sight of Sylvie hurting is excruciating.
And the thought of losing her is the equivalent of death. Or worse.
Even so, my patience is thinning.
My gaze rakes over her lacy white thong and her tiny bandeau top. I curl my palm around her throat, showing all my cards—my lust, my fury, my desperation. “This is my answer to how we’ll keep things casual.”
Because she’s fierce, she can’t help but push back even though I catch a flicker of hope, her amber beauties bouncing all over my face with her sass. “Choking is your definition of casual?”
“This is my fucking definition of forever, Sylv, of having enough of you waiting for me to fail, like a goddamn brat.”
Her pupils dilate with that, like they do with her nickname sometimes. She yearns to spar, and she craves a rush.
Squeezing the sides of her throat just enough to give her alluring pressure, I use my other hand to unfasten the zipper on her top, so it spills down her frame and puddles at her feet.
“You could give me free rein of the whole planet, and I’d still choose you.
That’s what I meant when I called you mine—a word I’d never used for a woman before.
There is no world or realm or life where I exist and you aren’t the axis.
You can push me away, but I’ve got a long fucking reach. I am here to stay.”
Her pain streams down her cheeks, dripping onto my hand and wrist, and she grimaces at the sight—irritated by that level of emotion. “I don’t want to push you away. I’m just so pissed.”
I’m sure she is. She’s been through hell and back for years, betrayed by the people she should’ve been able to trust, and this probably felt like revisiting the flames. But I am not the demon in her story.
“Then fight,” I demand, ripping the string of her panties so they fall to join her top.
She gasps, but fails to see the correlation. “What?”
“Fucking fight,” I growl, ready to come out of my goddamn skin. I bend so my face is closer to hers, our lips a hair’s breadth from one another’s. “For what you want.”
What I don’t say is that I need her to fight for me like I’ve been fighting for her, that it took thirty-two years for me to imagine really giving myself to someone and I will not survive her penchant for bolting at the first sign of trouble, that the mere notion of her walking out that door is like never waking up from the nightmare that haunts me.
I’m not great at expressing feelings, so I hope she can read all that in my eyes when I issue my order. “Get on your knees.”
Even naked, with my hand adorning her throat, she’s feisty. She lifts her chin, but then she searches my face, aptly reading much of what I hoped she’d find there, before she sucks in a breath. And drops to my feet.
This won’t be the first time she’s sucked me off, but it’s always been on her terms.
I coil her hair around my fist, yanking enough to further illustrate the shift between us. “You are my queen and my slut, but the most important part of either is that you’re mine. So, show me.”
Her chest heaves for a moment, and I’m starting to understand those hesitations are as much about trusting herself as they are about trusting me. We’ll work on that too.
Finally devoting herself to the task, she undoes my belt and zipper and rolls my boxer briefs down, reaching for me the second my painfully hard cock springs toward her, fringed by my shirttails.
“No.” I capture her wrist. “Hands on my thighs and eyes on me.”
She does as she was told, but she notes the precum dripping from the head, and her mouth pops open.
Salivating. That’s enough to have my knees unsteady.
Her thirst for me is everything I’ve dreamed of, but never truly understood.
Before her, I was stuck in an illusion, believing more would cure the ache, that abundance was winning.
All the while missing the magic—who fucking knew her perfection existed?
I paint her lips with the leaking tip, and when her tongue darts out to lick them clean, I change my mind, scooping her into my arms, pinning her against the wall, and plunging inside her wet pussy in one punishing thrust.
She whimpers from the force, locking her ankles behind my ass and taking my fury pump after pump. So wet for me.
A rack of my belts plummets to the floor with a jangle and the shelves around us rattle, but my pace doesn’t falter.
And once again, I am dizzy and undone by the potency in which her cunt throttles my shaft, by the wholeness her arms extend, and by the drive to chain her to me until the end of fucking time.
I crash my mouth into hers, fueled further by the taste of myself on her tongue and her unabashed pleasure at being ravaged.
“Who do you fucking belong to, Sylvie?”
“You,” she pants.
“And who do I belong to?” I move my hand back to her throat, my unforgiving cadence never abating.
A few more drops of her anguish and hope track down her cheeks, her astonishment from the question causing her limbs to quiver, but she finally puffs out a strained, “Me.”
“That’s my girl.” Thrust. “People do not fucking steal from us.” Harder. “Not our joy.” Slam. “Or peace.” Again. “Not each other.” Pump. “Or our future.”
She nods on a shuddered breath. I drive into her again and again, my apadravya piercing etching her G-spot, my Jacob’s ladder branding her inner walls, my lower abs rubbing her clit.
Her lashes flutter, but she keeps those gorgeous eyes on me.
And when she moans, gyrating her hips and scoring my shoulders with crescent moons, I know she’s announcing her impending peak, so I need to finish this.
Another merciless thrust punctuates my final question. “Do we give up when things are hard?”
Her eyes are hooded. She’s so fucking close, but my strong girl shakes her head. “We fight.”
“That’s right. I am not something you quit.” I lock on to her ambers, silently imploring her to hear the weight of my words. “You are my way through the goddamn flames, Sylv, and I am yours.”
Despite her rapturous state, she heeds the significance of that proclamation, sliding her hand over my cheek to assure me. That’s something, but I’m not done. Sensing she’s about to come, I pull out and return her to rest between my feet.
Fuck, she’s radiant. Flushed and vulnerable, strong and pliable.
Allotting her only a moment to catch her breath, I fist her hair and shove inside her, using her mouth as my own personal fucktoy. “You taste that? Your delicious pussy coating my cock? That’s us.”
She murmurs her agreement, complying with my previous order and holding on to my thighs for dear life.
Her pupils blow wide, but she never falters, even as she combats an occasional gag reflex.
And the vibrations from her exultation surge through my shaft, drawing up my balls and zipping up my spine.
I whip myself out of her, seconds from my release.
“Tongue out,” I order.
She obeys as I stroke my dick to the tempo of the ecstasy swelling in me. Ropes of cum stream toward her, landing in her mouth and on her breasts and stomach.
Jesus, she’s a beautiful fucking sight.
“Swallow what’s in your mouth. That—the flavor of you and me—is the taste of triumph.” Bending down, I swipe two fingers through the valley of her breasts, smearing the remnants of me and drawing a symbol.
She turns toward the mirror, noting the dollar sign with a coy grin, and her gaze rises to mine in the reflection. “Dirty Cash.”
Matching her expression, I release an unbidden chuckle. “Exactly. Mine.”
She spins back to me and drags two fingers through the cum on her taut stomach. Holding them up with arrogance that tells me she knows this is making me feral again, she sucks them clean with a provocative hum. “That’s a currency I can get behind.”
She’s impossible to put in her place because she’s so damn witty. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s her spirit that captivates me most.
Of course it would be against my nature not to attempt to get the last word. I stoop before her and swirl her clit until her lips part with a whimper. So eager to come, she grips my biceps and shamelessly fucks my hand, purring as she climbs to the summit once again.
Retracting my fingers, I lick them clean with an inciting groan and leave her wanton.
“You’re late for your meeting with Axel.
You need to get washed up. If you want to finish yourself off, you can.
But while you’re touching that perfect pussy, remember that from this point forward, the only reason you’ll ever be isolated is because you are choosing it. ”
She swallows, and because she is the most authentic mix of honesty, accountability, and fortitude found in vulnerability—which is mind-blowing for someone who is a masterful thief—she doesn’t get angry about my reproach. She owns it. “I’m sorry.”
I cradle her face because the last thing I want is for her to beat herself up about one more thing. “Don’t be sorry, Sylvie. Expect me to be who you deserve. Expect me to be here, to choose you, to always fucking show up.”
“Okay.” She gnaws on her lip, but determination blankets her. “You deserve that too. I’ll have more faith in us. I’ll show up.”
“I know.” I kiss her forehead. “I already believe in you, baby.”
With that, I get cleaned up and set out to make plans for Danny Gordon. Sylvie can handle Flora however she wants. But that asshole is mine.