Page 70 of Mayfly

“That might just be the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“Nothing about us should be. But you're still not bad like I am."

“Having ‘MI6 Agent’ near my name doesn’t make me a hero. I’m a robot. I do whatever they tell me to do. I seek out the most dangerous jobs and don’t give a fuck about how many men I hurt.”

“So why do it if you thought I wanted the good kind of hero?”

“I’m not the only one with a self-fulfilling prophecy, Curren. And by the looks of it, I’m exactly who you wanted me to be… Now hurry up and fuck me. Prove just how much you can love me for being a bad man, too.”

The timbre of his voice.

The weight of his presence.

The strength of everything about him.

I raise myself as best I can, and sink back down on him. It's good, but so limiting with his legs still bound to the chair.

With Jude inside me, I drag my knife over with my foot.

One by one, I cut the buttons of his shirt so I can spread it open and see more of him.

His dark nipples.

The patch of hair that runs from his belly button to my new favorite thing.

“I'm fucking obsessed with you,” I tell him with a kiss, then lean down to cut his legs free.

As soon as he can move, Jude grips my ass and stands.

I press the knife to his neck. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“You can’t expect me to just stay sitting there.”

“I think I can. You told me to fuck you, so let me do it.”

Jude reaches for my knife and it slides from my fingers without resistance.

Jude kicks the chair further away from Marius and the hole before sitting. And when he does sit, he stops groping my ass so he can make a point of stretching out his arms and linking his hands behind his head. “Go on, then.”

Just for being cocky, I stand straight up with no warning—my legs still straddling him—and watch his expression fall as my warmth is replaced by London’s morning air. “I can stop right now, if you like.”

“No, you can’t.”

“I do have some self control.”

“We only got this far because of you, remember.”

“Fuck you.”

He grabs my dick, then licks his lips. “I thought that's what we were doing?"

I want to hit him. I want to show him how fucking angry he makes me, but—my god—I need this man exactly like he is.

I'm still straddling his legs, and when I don't move, he opens his mouth.

I clamp my hands around his head, force him forward, then ram my length into his mouth and down his throat. He gags, but it’s what we both want. The constant conflict. The knowledge that nothing we ever give will be too much for the other to handle.

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