Page 91 of Wrath
A deep, sexual groan came from his mouth in a way that rumbled her entire being.
She urged him to keep going, but he hesitated. Getting desperate, she needed him, wanted to feel him inside her, wanted that connection to drive deep. She urged his touch from her breast down her flat stomach and below. They slipped together beneath her waistband until he hit her aching core. She wore no panties, and he approved with a grunt into her hair. When he took over driving the touch, she almost wept with relief.Thank Christ.
Yes.Yes. She lifted to his touch, and he pushed a finger inside. Little pleading sounds burst from her mouth as he pumped slowly, and toyed with her, spreading her wetness around.
“Oh, God, yes,koteczek. Play with me,” she moaned, breathing heavily into the dark.
A rough, ragged breath into her ear told her he loved it, and that he was falling as hard as she. With each stroke and flick of his fingers, her pleasure coiled tighter.
“More,” she breathed, craning her neck to see him over her shoulder.
His lips found hers and his heady taste brought a new sweet agony—she reached around and tugged his pants down until she found his arousal. She squeezed until he grunted, and then she pumped, sliding her fist up and down his satin-smooth length.
Still with their mouths on each other, but her back to his front, they increased the urgency of their loving until she could stand it no more. She needed him inside her. Now. She angled until his tip pressed against her wet, needy center. In one swift thrust, he pushed in completely. She cried out, almost flying into climax, but when he didn’t move, she came back down to earth.
Oh, so now he plays, she thought amused. Her humor vanished when he refused to move, even as she squirmed and writhed in arresting torment. The sensation of him filled and stretched her deliciously. She tried to move, to thrust back into him, but he gripped onto her and forced her to still.
“What are you doing?” she murmured impatiently.
“I’m taking a picture memory.”
She laughed.Bastard.
Only when she was panting and hot with need did his fingers wander down between her legs, rubbing and bringing her back to the edge of oblivion.
Feeling drugged on his heat, his scent, and his taste, she could do little else but let him kiss her while he expertly pleasured below, and only when that knot of sensation pulled so tight that she exploded and saw stars, did he begin to move inside her. Slow, languid thrusts that kept her orgasm cascading, curling her toes and making every limb pleasantly numb. There was no doubt in her mind that she felt loved in that moment. No doubt that whatever the test result would be tomorrow, he’d hold her with two hands, never letting go.
Forty-Two
The next morning,Sloan shuffled into the VIP room in the restaurant below their apartments. Heaven was only a short walk from her front door, but it seemed like a world away. The previous night’s activities had turned every muscle in her body into a screaming bitch. That’s what activity would do to you. Much easier to sleep all day than to force yourself to save the world. She’d rather have stayed in bed a few more hours, but she’d made a promise to Wyatt that she would make an effort.
The rest of the family were already seated around the enormous banquet table usually reserved for board meetings with snooty business men like Parker. As she stood at the door, in her fluffy Sailor Moon slippers, and looked for a vacant seat at the crowded table, she picked up the tail end of Evan’s recount of his efforts from the previous night. Apparently the explosions that rocked the city were linked to the dude Wyatt and Misha had beef with. When the cops ended up at that Russian club, and found the dead bodies inside, they chalked it all up to some gangland weird shit. It helped that she’d left some evidence she’d gleaned from his computers out in the open.
Of course, she’d also taken a shitload of evidence for herself. Why not? The guy had ties to the Syndicate.
Someone must have said something funny because everyone laughed and she looked up at all the smiling faces.
It was good to hear that sound, and somewhere deep down inside her, there was a yearning to feel the same, but… it was like an empty chasm in there. Hollow, dry, and achy from misuse. Just like her body. But she was done feeling sorry for herself and blaming all her woes on another man. Max Johnson, who?
He was just an asshole who didn’t deserve her.
Wyatt had been right. Getting outside and having purpose again snapped something inside her back to life. Pity she’d been useless last night. Mary had contributed most of the body count, while all Sloan had done was shoot a few arrows and then hid under a dead body. The edges of shame pushed at her but, to be honest, she didn’t care.
Empty, remember?
She didn’t even feel much about the revelation of their eldest sister being alive. Sloan was the second youngest in the family, and had no memory of Daisy, so—meh.
The only thing that held a trace of fire in her otherwise baron heart was the burning hate for Max. Seeing three of her siblings happy in love was making it clearer every day that her relationship with him had been toxic. Long distance, online, and always at the whim of his beck and call. The things she did with him over the phone—it would make Tony blush. Stupid, stupid things. And she knew better than anyone that your digital life was a mighty long time. You couldn’t completely erase your electric fingerprint. The worst part, the reason she hated him, was because after she’d confessed her deepest secret about her true identity, he’d told Sloan he loved her and that he was quitting the army to come and be with her. Then he fucking dumped her. No explanation, no reason, just disappeared like a ghost.
She’d looked him up and discovered he’d actually arrived in town like he promised, but had left the same night.
What a jerk, and now that she saw the bigger picture, that her true mate was still out there, and it wasn’t Max, he wasn’t worth the scuff-grub beneath her slippers. He was all wrong for her. A lover who ran at the first sign of trouble? Not for her. She needed a man who would run headlong into danger for her, like Wyatt had for Misha.
“You going to stand there all morning with a snarl on your face?”
The deep voice had her blinking away cobwebs in her mind. She turned to Parker’s disapproving stare. Like the rest of his family, he’d scrubbed up for the occasion. Suit, tie, shampoo-commercial lustrous locks.
“Swear to God, Parks. You should be on the cover of a romance novel with that hair,” she said with an arch of the eyebrow.
