Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Bianca
My heart beats so fast I feel a little dizzy. The range of emotions is rocking me, like I'm playing emotional whiplash, and then he… Oh fuck .
Oh Jesus fucking Christ.
Ashland bends and lifts me, his thick, large hands grabbing my arse. I will never tire of him holding me. Then I'm in his arms, and my legs wrap around him. Even now, there’s an instinctive need to protest. You can't lift me… I'm too big… How can you?
But the ease with which he carries me silences any objections I have. This is exactly what he is built for, and it looks as if he's been dying for just this moment.
To hold me. To show me. To claim me .
And now, I want it. There was something about being back with Marcus—hearing the way he talked about me, the way he treated me, feeling that energy vibrate off him—that made me see everything Ashland told me was true. And not just about the murders.
About… me. About how he feels. About the way he’ll do anything to protect me.
Every objection I had fell away, discarded like paper from a gift. I was left with nothing but the brutal truth: Ashland is obsessed with me. He's obsessed with me. And my god, I want to be with a man who's obsessed with me.
Maybe that makes me twisted, but right now, all I want is to forget.
His hands are wrapped around my arse and upper thighs—my legs around his waist. I throw my arms around his neck and hold on, because when I’m with Ashland, I fall straight out of my mind and into my body in a way only he can control.
My thoughts blur and quiet, and I just… feel.
Then he kisses me, his lips on mine, and I've never wanted to be kissed like this before in my life. He walks—no, stalks —toward the bedroom, carrying me as if I’m weightless.
He’s not even winded. He lays me down on the bed with reverence. My head hits the pillow, and I'm cocooned in soft white linen.
Then the bed creaks as he places one knee down beside me. “You're so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, his lilt thick with emotion. “So beautiful, Bianca. I'll say that every single day until you believe it too. I can't believe?—”
He chokes, unable to make eye contact. And I realize he's not exactly crying, but he… I place a tentative hand on the broad expanse of his chest and feel hard muscle beneath my palm. “It's okay,” I whisper.
“I want this. I want you.” He bends down and slowly cups my jaw.
His hand is so large—his thumb rests on my chin, and his thick, rough fingers span the length of my neck. I shiver and move involuntarily closer to his palm, like a cat seeking attention and warmth. His lips meet mine as his tongue explores my mouth.
Pressure builds between my thighs, rocking me to my core. “You have to understand, lass,” he says, his voice raw, “once I have you, I'm never gonna let you go. You know that, don't you?”
“I'm counting on it,” I whisper.
He notices me trembling, his second hand braced on the bed beside us. He kisses me like I’m precious. And I love it.
It's gentle, proclaiming, and moving all at once. “ Bianca . If you tell me to stop?—”
“No.” His jaw clenches, and his silver eyes drop to my lips, darkening.
“I don't know how to be gentle. ”
Something snaps in him, and I see it happen—the last thread of his control fraying, breaking, gone. His hand slides into my hair, gripping it tight enough to make me gasp, but he doesn't stop.
Yes, yes .
Excitement boils inside me. I'm shaking with anticipation. His other hand wraps around my waist and yanks me flush against him.
I can feel every inch of hard muscle, coiled violence, barely restrained need. “Last chance,” he growls against my mouth.
I fist my hands in his shirt and draw him impossibly closer until we clash. “Kiss me like you mean it.”
And he does. Oh my fucking god , I'm not ready.
He angles my head exactly where he wants it. He takes my mouth like he owns it, like he's been starving for six years and I'm the only thing that can feed him and sate his hunger.
I whimper into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, groaning in response.
My hips grind against his as his tongue sweeps in, demanding entrance. When I open for him, he takes, licking into my mouth like he's mapping me, memorizing the taste of me, as if he wants to consume me whole.
I've been kissed before—chaste pecks with boys who asked permission, who were careful and sometimes sweet, but always forgettable. And Marcus… I won’t think of that now.
It doesn't matter, and I don't fucking care because this isn't that. This is… this is being devoured.
My hands slide up his chest because I need to feel the solid muscle and hot skin, his rapid heartbeat beneath my palms, until my hands reach his neck and I can feel his pulse hammering. He's shaking. This massive, scarred, brutal stalker is shaking because he's kissing me.
The power of it makes me dizzy. I kiss him back and bite his lower lip, hear his sharp intake of breath, and run my hands across his skin.
“ Fuck ,” he whispers against my mouth.
Then he's kissing me again, deeper, rougher, his hand tightening in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat. He knows exactly what he's doing. I am the canvas, and he’s the painter. Every brushstroke is perfection.
His mouth moves to my neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses that make me weak.
“All these years,” he growls against my skin, the Irish in his voice thicker now. “Watching you, wanting you, knowing I couldn't have you.”
His teeth scrape my pulse point, and I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. “And now you're here.” He bites gently, and electricity zaps through me, making my core ache with need .
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs. His thumb traces my swollen lower lip. “No idea what I want to do to you.”
I should be terrified. Instead, I'm liquid heat, a racing pulse, and desperate want. “Show me, Ashland. Show me.”
“I don’t want to hurt?—”
I grip his shoulders. “ Show me .”
His control shatters. He kisses me again, and this time there's nothing to hold him back. His hands are everywhere—my waist, my hips, sliding down to grip my arse and thighs.
I gasp at the sudden movement, and he uses it to kiss me deeper.
I involuntarily grind myself against him, my aching, throbbing pussy dying for contact and friction.
He covers my body with his, and when I feel the weight of him, solid and real, the overwhelming presence of him, something inside me cracks open.
“Mine.” He breathes against my lips between kisses. “Say it.”
“Yours, Ashland.” The words come out broken and desperate. “ Yours . Now you tell me .”
He groans as if I've wounded him. “Bianca.” He sighs, deep and affected. “I’m yours, lass. Yours. Christ, woman, look at you. All the things I want to do to you… ”
“ Do it .” I arch into him and feel his sharp intake of breath. His forehead drops to mine in surrender, trembling, before his hand cups my face with a gentleness that contradicts the violence in his kiss.
“I don't think you know what you're asking for,” he whispers.
I look into his eyes and see it. The obsession. My monster.
My savior. Mine .
“Teach me,” I whisper.
Then he kisses me again, slower this time, deeper, like he's drinking me in. As if he's memorizing every gasp and whisper.
I taste his surrender and mine. His hand slides under my shirt, his fingers skating across my ribs, and I arch into his touch.
Every nerve ending in my body is on fire.
I can feel myself swollen and slick and panting.
Every thought in the world narrows to the head of a pin, one defining moment that erases all other consciousness.
His mouth. His hands. His body pressing me into the mattress.
“I'll ruin you,” he warns against my lips, his Irish accent making the words sound like a promise.
“I'm counting on it.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen from our kissing, his chest heaving .
He looks wrecked. “There's no going back after this, lass.”
“I don't want to go back.” I pull him to me again. “I want you, Ashland. All of you.”
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a growl.
All I needed was one night with my monster of a fiancé to see that Ashland has always told me nothing but the truth. “All I need is you. Maybe that's selfish. Maybe I?—”
“No. Shh,” he whispers, one thick finger coming to my lips and silencing me.
“Not another word like that, lass. Not another word. Do you understand me, Bianca?” I nod and give him exactly what he needs.
“I'm done running. I'm done chasing other people to get an ounce of attention. I want what you have to give me, Ashland. Make me yours. ” He undresses me slowly, reverently, like he’s unwrapping something sacred.
He reaches the bottom of the tee and lifts it up. “Fuck,” he breathes out, panting, his hands shaking.
I'm nervous. My hands cover his, and I slow the trembling. “It's alright. Let's do it together,” I whisper.
My fingers meet his, and we lift the fabric together, baring me to him. “Christ, lass,” he growls. “How are you so perfect?” His voice trembles as he looks at me. And I know, down to my toes, that he likes what he sees .
His eyes widen when he touches my skin, the contrast stark—my softness against his scars, his tattoos. His rough hands on my soft, ivory skin. My hands on his—darker, rougher, calloused.
“I want to know the marks on you, Ashland. Every scar, every tattoo, every piece of what makes you… you .” He slides the top up further.
When he reveals another expanse of skin, he bends down and brushes his lips over it… as if worshipping me.
“Ashland…”
“Shh… I waited years for this. Let me take my time.”
His fingers find the hem of my shirt, which is up to my breasts. I nod, not trusting my voice, as he slowly peels it off. His knuckles drag against my stomach, and I shiver.
Goose bumps erupt across my skin. “Are you cold, lass?” he whispers, concerned. “Do you need me to?—”