Page 199 of His Pretty Little Duet

Vulnerable. Utterly open. He clings to my body, hand in my hair, fearful of any distance. He doesn't just love me. I'm hiseverything. Like he is mine.

Tears continue to stream down my face as we break through mountains and crumbling walls. As we strip off his cool façade that was no choice of his to create. Armour that protected him from questioning the evil around him. A veil that separated him from the innocent girl that affects him still.

He fucks it all out.

His pristine mannerisms.

His unreadable affections.

All the real fear, pain, and regret shine from him and it is beautiful and chaotic and devastating. And he gifts it all to me as he builds towards his orgasm in such a way that makes me feel like his home, his safe space. My body, his sanctuary. A place of redemption.

My dangerous man.

My Clay Butcher.

My number one.

Fawn

Freshly washed,fucked, and clinging to the seams of consciousness, we sit on the sofa in our master suite. Inside here, we are alone to be us. Even as the city through the window is a vast landscape of flickering lights and dashing orange lines that beckon him. Want a piece of him.

But not tonight.

I straddle his lap, my bare body on his, as I hold an ice pack to the bruising starting to colour the side of his cheekbone. He was struck during the fight at the campsite. I didn't see it happen—but otherwise, we are both nearly unscathed. It's a miracle, really. Magic, maybe. No one was going to take away my number one good thing.

He enjoys a cigar while I tend to him. Wolf or lion, the king of this damn District jungle, a wound is a wound, and it has no mistress.

He leans back in a powerful pose. One arm hanging over the top of the sofa, the other by his side, fingers playing with the ends of my hair. Sort of like I do…

The cigar balances between his lips as he draws in and out, stoking the glowing ember to flare and then darken. His clear,blue gaze watches me quietly. It's as intimate a moment as any other.

The image of my father's eyes and the creases between his eyebrows tumble into my mind. I inhale hard.

"I don't want to think about him," I say. "He didn't really look like me. Not really. But his eyes…"

"Yes, sweet girl. You may feel however you need about tonight. I will not stop you. If you want to grieve that man?—"

"I don't." I shake my head. "I don't want to grieve him. I want to forget him. I want to forget that I have his eyes."

He gazes at me for a moment, a frown tightening his forehead. "You know, my brothers hold resentment towards my mother. The fact she favours me is not a secret. The other reasons, I wasn’t around to know or understand. But... I have her features," he says to me. "I'm the only one with her bone structure. Cheekbones. Sharper than my brothers. I’ve always wondered whether the likeness bothered them.”

I take him in. "I think you look like Luca."

"I do. But I also look like her. Take your time with this. You don't need to decide how you feel." His eyes are hooded in the dim light of the room. "Just let it happen, sweet girl."

"It's so raw right now, though."

"Would you like me to make you forget?"

A flush of heat paints my skin in a pink hue as his eyes drink me in, roaming my body in an intense way that presses in on me, presses down on me, forcing his intent.

"Yes." I open my mouth to breathe, trying to concentrate on his bruised cheekbone, on the ice that is melting from the pack, when his hand leaves my hair and slides around my naked waist. Following the curve of my backside down to my arse, he circles the rim between my cheeks. I pucker against him, wanting the experience of being full, stretched in that exquisite way.

I dart my gaze to meet smouldering pits of dark intentions and promises. His eyes flare, pupils large, orbed with a glowing ring of sky-blue.

A grin that is pure sex plays in the corner of his mouth. "I want this tonight," he purrs, poking through the tight muscles, and holding the tip of his thick pad inside me.

I whimper but push back to aid him in inserting his forefinger. My pussy ripples, the penetration only inches away like a phantom sensation inside those muscles, pushing in, and if I sit back, maybe I'll feel?—

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