Page 65 of Ruthless Rebel

“You know why,” he mutters, head tipping down to the floor, but my hand reaches up and captures his chin, pulling his gaze back to mine.

“I know, but tell me anyway.”

His eyes search mine, as my mind relives every single time we’ve been close like this, knowing most of those times were because he had me up against the wall by my throat, denying what was right in front of him, but not anymore.

“He hurt something that belongs to me, and he needed to pay,” he whispers, eyes searching mine, and even with that cunt’s blood still staining his face, he is still the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. “So I killed the five men he had left, and then I shot, stabbed, and sliced him until he was bleeding and crying, and then I used an ax to cut into his chest and slice out his heart.”

The hand holding his chin slides down, curling around his throat, pulling him in even closer, as I whisper against his mouth, “I always knew you wanted me, Dark Prince.” Then I seal his blood-stained lips to mine, and nothing has ever tasted so fucking sweet.

32

ASHER

I’ve never relished the idea of kissing. In fact, I’ve always thought most human touch was revolting and unnecessary, but I’ve recently discovered there are some exceptions to that, most of them coming in the form of Logan, but then there is Lincoln Blackwell. His lips are warm and firm as they press against my own, and unlike kissing Logan, Lincoln’s are completely claiming with no room for argument. He kisses me like he owns me, like there isn’t any doubt that I belong to him, and it consumes me completely.

For once, the thoughts in my mind are quiet, as his darkness collides with mine, and hides us both in the shadows together. Even injured he takes control, squeezing my throat tightly, and using his thumb to tip my head back to deepen the kiss even more. His tongue traces along the seam of my lips, and just as with Logan, I open my mouth on instinct, allowing him access. As soon as our tongues collide, he groans long and deep, pushing up off the sink and pulling me into him completely, like a man starved.

He kisses me like it’s the end of the world, and I kiss him back because after last night, it feels like it just might be. It’s all lips, tongue, and teeth, until I feel like I might pass out from lack ofoxygen, but still I don’t want to stop. Kissing him is better than breathing, and if this is how I die, then so be it.

When he finally pulls away we are both panting, and I have never seen his eyes so dark and focused before, holding me captive until his hold on me tips my head to the side, and his mouth begins trailing down my jaw and neck. Every brush of his lips is a delicious torture, and I can feel myself getting more aroused with every passing second.

Is this what it feels like? To want to be touched by somebody, to crave their skin against yours in unholy ways, and kill anyone who tries to take them from you? I never understood obsession before, the need to find someone, but with Lincoln’s lips licking against my skin, I think I might finally understand it.

“Fuck, Ash, I always knew you’d be so fucking sweet,” he groans, nipping and lapping at my throat like I am the best thing he has ever tasted, and fuck does it feel good.

“That’s probably Billy’s blood,” I say in response, attempting to control my rapidly beating heart, but when I feel his smirk against my skin, all it does is pound even harder.

“Do you think that will deter me?” He asks, a dangerous lilt in his tone. “That you, killing a man and ripping his heart out for me, will scare me away?” His unamused laugh is wicked and hot against my neck, sending molten lava through my veins. “Do you have any idea how long I have been waiting for you to play with me, Dark Prince?” The gravel in his voice makes my head spin, and when he pulls away and looks at me expectantly, all I can do is shake my head. “Since the night I went on that mission with Elle and you stayed behind to watch Cass,” he starts, kissing me again, before pulling back and letting his gaze dance down my bare torso. “If I’m remembering correctly, I think you threatened to boil my limbs in acid while I watched if I let anything happen to her,” he muses with a grin, and for once I can’t hide my own smile, remembering that exact moment with ease.

“Yeah, that sounds like me,” I exhale, attempting once more to calm my heart rate, and in turn, my cock.

Lincoln shifts, and I see a flash of pain in his stare, but before I can say anything else, the hand around my throat slides down to my chest, his thumb brushing over the scar left there by my father’s bullet that was meant for Elle. “Life is so fucking fragile, yet we so often forget to live it,” he whispers, no doubt remembering the day I was shot better than I do. “We know more than most how easily it can be abused and taken,” he adds, his eyes finally dancing back up to mine. “So I need you to know I’m in this, Asher, no matter how deep it goes, I’m all the way in, okay?”

I’m sure his words would scare most people, but for me they are a burning promise I hope he never breaks.

“Okay,” I breathe, kissing him again, and the only reason I stop is because I can feel the sweat slick on his skin. “You need to shower,” I tell him sternly, and before he can refuse, I reach out and slip down his boxers, my eyes never leaving his.

Then I reach for my own, and discard them too, before holding out my arm and gesturing towards the shower. He moves slowly, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, one that widens when I put my arm around his waist and help him under the hot spray. Then I’m reaching for a washcloth and some body wash, but he grabs it first, squirting some of the woody-scented liquid onto the cloth and pressing it against my chest.

Only then does he pause, eyes trained on mine, and I realize he is asking for permission to touch me. He knows my past, he heard what I said, and despite some of the times he’s touched me without asking in the moment, he still knows there are certain invisible lines that I have never crossed with anyone. My heart is beating so fast I feel like it might explode, yet still, I manage a slight tip of my head to signal that he’s okay to touch me. Then he is washing me, slowly dragging the sud-filled cloth across my skin and erasing the blood of the man that will always be buried at our feet.

I don’t realize I am struggling to breathe until he has finished and my upper body is clean. I don’t mean for it to happen, it’s just, no one has ever touched me like this, so gently, so without agenda, and suddenly I am back in my room with all those women, and bile floods the back of my throat. I grip his hand, halting it in place and sensing my impending panic, he gestures to the bench seat behind us, and I help him over to it. Then without another word, I slip out of the shower, grabbing a towel for my waist and head into the bedroom to take a moment to catch my breath.

Once there, I go through the motions of drying off, slipping into a fresh pair of gray sweats, before quickly finding some clean sheets for the bed. The entire time my eyes stay fixed on the bathroom door, wondering what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, and once I’ve exhausted getting the room back in order, I give up. I head back toward it, knowing he probably needs my help, but before I reach it, it opens, steam billowing out, as Lincoln appears wrapped in a towel.

I rush forward, grabbing his waist and helping him towards the end of the bed. “You should have waited, I would have helped you,” I scold, as he grunts in pain, and I move to grab the first aid kit so I can freshen up his bandages now that he is clean.

“And miss out on playing doctor with you? No way,” he huffs, as I kneel at his feet and lean forward to start pulling away the medical tape.

“You were stabbed, Lincoln, please take that seriously,” I spit, ripping away the bandages and showcasing the nasty looking wound below his ribs.

The feeling that killing Billy and ripping his heart was not enough, roars through me, and I force deep breaths in through my nose inan attempt to control my fury. That stupid fuck stabbed him too low, it’s most likely the only reason Linc managed to get away, but it doesn’t make me feel any less angry about it.

“Shh, I’m trying to enjoy the view of you finally on your knees for me, and you’re kind of ruining it,” Lincoln whines, and when my eyes flick to his, he is smiling suggestively.

I try to force away the image he just painted, swallowing thickly, as I muse, “I see those painkillers have finally kicked in.” Yet he doesn’t respond, just watches me quietly, as I clean and redress his wound with fresh bandages and tape.

His stare is piercing and branding, like he is memorizing every single swipe of my fingers against his skin, and he isn’t exactly hiding the thick length of himself beneath the towel. Is that a reaction to my touch? Is he as desperate as I am?

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