Page 29 of Savage Justice

She slams the drawer shut and whirls on me. “There you go again, ordering me about as though I’m one of your… your…”

“Soldiers?”

“If you like.”

“No, honey. You’d make a crap soldier. You can’t take orders for a start, and you have no sense of self-preservation. You’d be long dead by now if we hadn’t stepped in, and your kids would be Christ knows where.”

I feel rather than see the blow coming. Her hand sweeps through the air in a direct line with my cheek. I move fast, block the slap, and seize her wrist. Undeterred, she swings with the other hand, so I grab that, too. I pin both hands behind her back, easily enclosing her wrists in my fist. To prevent further attacks, I drag her body in close, her chest pressed to mine. Her struggles become more frenzied, more ferocious as she fights against my hold. It’s an unequal struggle, but I’m prepared to let her continue until she either sees the futility of it or wears herself out. When she goes still, I cup her jaw in my free palm and tip her face up.

“Don’t make me force the issue, Molly.”

“Is that your answer for everything?”

I pretend to consider, then, “Yeah. I reckon so. If all else fails.”

“I’m so sick of you pushing me around. Why don’t you—?”

I’ve heard enough. I stop the tirade before she even gets started, in the only way that comes to mind. I cover her mouth with mine.

I sense rather than hear the gasp, the sharp intake of breath. I expect her to seal her mouth, try to keep me at bay. If she’d tried to twist away, slip out of my grip, I might even have allowed it.

She doesn’t. Maybe she’s too stunned, too shocked at my sudden turnabout. Maybe she’s scared, even, though I like to think I’d have an inkling if that was it. I may not be Mr Sensitivity, but I generally understand fear and how to create it, and this isn’t it.

This is… something else entirely. Chemistry, perhaps. Or maybe fate, if you believe in that sort of thing, which I don’t, as a rule.

But I’m prepared to give it a chance.

I slant my head to deepen the kiss, all the while anticipating some sort of pushback, a protest.

Nothing.

If anything, she responds. Her tongue tangles with mine, dances between my lips, caresses my teeth. My free hand is in her hair, dislodging the loose ponytail so her brunette curls tumble about her shoulders. I remember my first sight of her, on her doorstep, anxiously waiting for her little girl to come home. I’d been struck then by her hair, long and wavy and glossy. From force of habit, I’d vaguely imagined getting my hands in it, tangling it, spreading it across my pillow…

Shit. I’m getting ahead of myself here.

I release my grip on her wrists, and she immediately brings her hands around to grasp the front of my T-shirt. Her fingers curl in the fabric, and she comes up on tiptoe to get better access to my mouth.

Never one to miss an opportunity, I reassess my position, taking her a few paces backwards, towards the bed. The backs of her knees connect, and we spill onto the mattress, never breaking the kiss.

We roll across the duvet, my knee between her thighs. She rubs against the denim, grinding her pussy on my thigh and moaning deep within her throat. I respond by sliding my hand beneath her blouse and tugging it free of her waistband. Moments later, I’ve unbuttoned it, exposing her pretty, lacy bra.

The underwear is nice, but I want rid. I reach behind her to unhook the fastener, and her delightful breasts spring free. Only then do I break the kiss and create a trail of nibbles and bites down her neck, her clavicle, and eventually I draw her plump nipple into my mouth, and I suck.

Molly arches off the bed with a strangled cry. Her fingers tunnel through my hair, and she seems to clutch at me as though she thinks I might change my mind.

Not. A. Chance.

I move to the other breast and suckle there, too.

She’s bucking and writhing beneath me, clawing at my T-shirt until she manages to shove it up to my armpits. I do the rest then return to the feast.

Her fingers are still busy, unfastening my jeans. I let her do her worst, then raise my hips slightly to allow her to shove the denim down. My boxers go as well, and my cock nudges her thigh.

She reaches for it, but I shift away. I prefer to run this shit-show my way. I grab the hem of her light summer skirt and raise it to her waist.

The knickers, now displayed, match the bra. They’re sheer and slick, white silk and lace. The telltale damp patch confirms her arousal.

“We need these gone? Right?” I curl my fingertips around the elastic at the top.

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