Page 62 of The Prodigal

A moment of being craved.

A moment where we can be…restored.

“You’re a brave little thing,” he muses, his lips curving against my skin. I wish I could see his smile, see the pleasure he’s gleaning from my body.

But I can’t.

I can only surrender to his power and…provoke.

“And you’re hesitating—again.”

His arms stiffen, and his muscles clench against me. “Don’t be so eager to sacrifice yourself. There is no greater good to fight for.”

“I’m willing to risk it.” My body trembles as I fight the frantic need to beg for more. More of his touch. His threats. The aching rawness of his heart.

I just needmore.

“You’ll hate me,” he whispers, grazing his lips against my neck then back to my cheek.

“Only when you’re being sweet,” I promise softly, letting my hands linger on his hips.

A groan falls from his lips, and it urges me forward. My fingers slip inside his soaked tee, lazily exploring the beautifully sculpted hills of muscles beneath.

He sucks in a breath, and I feel the anguish saturate the air before he releases it. “You deserve better, love.”

“But I don’t want better,” I whisper. “I wantyou.”

It’s as if the air around us stills, fearful of when his head lifts and his brows scrunch with pain.

But not me.

I know what’s hidden behind those warm, mocha eyes.

A man stitched together by hate and pain.

A man strengthened by revenge and retribution.

A man who loathes surrendering.

His hands come up to cup my cheeks in a firm and unyielding grip. I can see every emotion flash through his haunted eyes, but nothing is as satisfying as when he shakes his head and tsks me with a hateful smile. “Brave, stupid girl.”

And then he crushes his lips to mine.

My lips part on impact, as if they know he isn’t asking permission for entrance. His tongue, like him, is equally ruthless as it claims every moan that leaves my body as he works, exploring the innermost parts of my mouth. Parts that I never knew existed. Parts that prompted fantasies of him burrowing deeper inside me, pulling out the pieces trapped behind fear and pain.

And I let him.

I pour every ounce of hope and promise through the wounds he left exposed.

And when he is ready, I let him go.

Remington

“Remington!”

She’s fucking laughing, and that pisses me off more than her banging on the passenger side window of my car.

“You cannot be serious.”

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