Page 66 of The Sinner and the Scholar
“Fuck you, Wes.”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you.” I toss back her words from our moment in the archives.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means sex and violence are the only languages you understand. You’d love me to turn you over that seat, spank the impudence out of you, and then fuck you in the arse like the unapologetic whore you claim to be.”
The words are out before I can stop them. My face burns, and my heart slams against my ribs. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. If Dom and Cisco heard me, they’d be appalled.
Every line of her body is tense. Her fists flex at her sides. She knows I’m halfway right. She’s pushing me, trying to force me to treat her in the shitty way she thinks she deserves.
“That’s awfully specific, Wesley,” she drawls. “For someone who claims not to want to hurt me, it seems you’ve given it much thought.”
“There’s no appeasing you. I gave you a taste of something different, and you ran the other way.” A flicker of emotion in her eyes tells me I’m right. I wish I had it in me to be moved. But I’m tired of this. It’s not like I find what’s happening between us easy. “You could have shared that fear with me because I feel the same. We could have been friends. It’s too late now, Thea. I’ve got nothing left to give but violence, and you don’t deserve that.”
Her eyes flash with something I don’t expect—triumph—and then she attacks me again. I don’t push her away this time. I hold her face between my hands and smash my lips against hers.
Twenty-Two
Thea
Wesley’s kiss is the cruel, punishing force I crave. I want to corrupt him. I want violence. I want to pay for my sins.
His fingers rip into my hair as he holds me immobile so he can unleash all that God-given male hunger on my mouth. Our teeth knock, and I taste blood. But he doesn’t slow down. He growls and delves deeper into my mouth with his tongue, ravishing me in ways I never thought possible.
I lift his shirt and press my palms to his scorching stomach. It’s like hard fire. The muscles of his abdomen contract and flex with his ragged breath. His taste is heady. I’m drunk on him, already falling, begging. I must be moaning, whimpering, or something because he sees my pleasure as a sign to slow down, to turn his plundering into slow seduction.
You don’t deserve violence.
“No,” I moan against his lips. “I do.”
“What?” he whispers gently.
I can’t have him going soft, so I force his hands from my face. Using every ounce of strength in my assassin-trained muscles, I drag his hands before my eyes. I already know he’s cut himself. I don’t understand why he’s so panicked about me seeing. But I know it triggers his violence, and that’s all I want.
With our hands locked in war, we stumble into the aisle. One group of four chairs is on his left, another on our right. The force of holding me at bay causes veins to pop along his tattooed forearms. His jaw clenches. I glance at the pilot’s door, but he’s been instructed not to leave the cockpit. He’s paid well, so he won’t, even if he hears bloody murder.
My expression is blank as I show Wesley why I’m the ruthless killer, and he’s not. I slap him. I taunt, and I play dirty. We end up falling together. His spectacles knock from his face, and I use his disorientation to straddle him. But he’s faster—or more determined—than I gave him credit for. He rolls us, pushes off the ground, and returns to his feet. I slowly stand and face him.
“Why won’t you show me your hands?”
“Let it go,” he replies. “It’s none of your business.”
His eye twitches. His t-shirt clings to his chest as it heaves. His hair is messy. His lips are swollen and bruised. I love it. I’ve never been more turned on in my life. But then he goes and says something that rips away my control.
“You’re so bloody smart, Thea. You’re better than this.”
Don’t say nice things to me.
He shuffles closer to console me, but I rear my hand back to slap him, daring him to retaliate. To give me violence. To punish me for my sins. He catches my wrist and finally reveals his darkness.
In an explosion of madness and strength, he roughly grabs my arms and faces me away from him, toward the back of the seats. Then his hand bites my neck so hard that I’ll bruise.
He shakes me to remind me of what I’m looking at—the seat ahead, custom-made to fit a private jet. The height of its leather backrest is short enough that I can fold over it and still keep my feet on the ground.
You’d love me to turn you over that seat.
He can’t see my wild grin as he forces me forward.
