Page 73 of Ruthless God

And I wait.

Because I want to see what he’ll do next.

A muscle ticks in his jaw. His eyes burn into mine, like he’s debating whether to end this here or take it further. And then he moves. It’s not slow. It’s not careful.

One second, I’m standing there, breathing hard, waiting for him to snap. The next, his hand is on my throat, thumb pressing lightly against my pulse, and his mouth crashes onto mine. Heat explodes between us. His lips are rough, punishing, claiming. My fingers dig into his shirt, twisting the fabric as I arch into him, as he backs me against the window.

The glass is cold against my spine. He’s hot everywhere else.

He grips my hip, pulling me flush against him, against the proof of exactly how hard he is, and a sharp, throbbing ache blooms deep in my stomach.

I should pull away…

But when I do break the kiss, it’s only to let a wicked, knowing smile curl my lips as I whisper, “Hard to say who’s testing who now, huh?”

His grip tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me again. Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t. But either way, we’ve already crossed the line. And there’s no going back.

His breath fans against my lips, his voice low and cutting.

“Guess you’ll do anything to get in bed with an Irons.”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and cruel, knocking the breath from my lungs. My whole body goes rigid with anger. But before I can snap back, before I can throw my words like knives, his mouth is on mine.

Hard.

Demanding.

A punishment.

Heat floods through my veins, melting the fury into something dark and consuming.

I should push him away.

I should slap him for that comment.

But I kiss him back. His tongue sweeps against mine, stealing whatever breath I had left. The kiss turns into a battle, neither of us willing to lose. I bite his lip hard and he growls, gripping my hips and pushing me back until I hit the window again.

My head smacks against the glass, and I take my anger out on Claudius’ mouth. And I hate him for it. But I also need more. The moment stretches. It’s hot, reckless, dangerous. Then, just as suddenly as he started it…

He pulls away.

Our breath mingles, heavy and uneven. His gaze scorches me. I wipe the back of my hand across my lips, glaring.

“Go to hell.”

He smirks, eyes gleaming, the dark amusement in them making my pulse tick faster.

“Already there.”

I should walk away. I should end this before it spirals even further. But I don’t. Because I need to get in one last dig.

So, with my chin lifted and my voice dripping with mock nonchalance, I say, “Gabriel is a better kisser.”

It’s a lie.

A blatant, calculated lie.

Because no one—and I mean no one—has ever made me feel this amount of passion and desire from just a kiss. Not even close. And the thought of taking it further? Of what it would feel like to be completely consumed by him? It’s dangerous. And it’sexactly why I have to push him away. Even if it means poking the beast.

---