Page 40 of Ruthless Redemption

It’s too much. The passion. The worship.

My mouth tingles. My heart gallops.

I quit fighting his war strategy and attack with my own. I kiss him back with increased ferocity. Our mouths spar. Harsh movements. Vicious lashes of tongue. I shove my hands into his hair. Pull the strands. Claw his skull.

His growling continues, the animalistic rumble living inside my chest as he grabs my hips and turns to walk me back to the island counter. He dumps my ass against the cold marble, then tugs me forward, forcing my legs to part around his waist.

I burn. In my heart. My limbs. No place more fiercely than between my thighs.

It’s agony. Potent and tart. It’s what I deserve for being so pathetic. So weak.

He yanks Bishop’s shirt over my head and possessively reclaims my chin to slam his lips back on mine.

His other hand is everywhere, cupping my breast, my ribs, my ass. He leaves a trail of blood all over me, marking my skin, painting me in his possession.

I don’t want this. Not the passion nor the lust.

But I don’t want anything other than this either.

I grasp his waistband while our mouths tussle. I blindly undo his belt. Tug his zipper. He does the same with my jeans, yanking the material down my legs along with my underwear.

Everything is a mass of wildfire and licking flames until his cock drives into me, the intrusion making me break away with a pleasured gasp.

We stare at each other, frozen, panting, hating, while his wrist drips with blood. The ruby-red stains the counter. My arms. Thighs. Cleavage. But all I know is the hardness of him inside me. The contact that sends me all the way back to love, affection, and thoughts of forever.

“Don’t stop now,” I snarl. “Fuck me.”

I need this mistake to be over. For the pleasure to come and go so I can start regretting my actions. Because right now, all I want ismore.

He’s slow to comply with a roll of controlled lethargy. It’s a meticulous thrill.

I arch my back, thrusting my breasts toward him, my nipples hard through my lace bra. He watches the movement, his gaze devouring every inch of me with ownership I yearn to submit to.

“Harder,” I demand.

I can’t withstand lazy and loving.

This needs to be a punishment.

Harsh. Fast. Cruel.

I focus on the blood oozing from his neck, the liquid seeping into his collar.

I tug and rip at his buttons, hungry to see more of him. I don’t stop until his shirt hangs open, his muscled pecs on display, the beautiful canvas blood free but not for long.

I run my palm over the crimson on his throat, then trail my touch over his chest. I leave a path of carnage, increasing the gore, letting his punishment soothe mine.

“You like to watch me bleed.” His stare tracks me with something akin to fascination.

“I like to watch you suffer.” I reinforce the lie with a glare.

“Arrenditi a me.”

I scoff. “That dreamy Italian has become a crutch, Butcher.”

“Really?” He claims my neck in his hand and grins. “You think I need foreign words to make you come?” His hold tightens. Restricts.

The confinement is riveting. Disturbingly delicious. It makes my pussy pulse around his cock.

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