Page 17 of Live Love Steal
He moved my hair. His finger traced the cut, all two inches of it. His eyes met mine. But instead of pity, there was something else. Something scary. All the warmth was gone. “Who did that?”
I swallowed. “No one.”
His stare was hard.
I had to confess. But I didn’t want to. I started my usual story—the sanitized one. “I went to this college party. Things got crazy.”
“Who did it?” he growled.
Obviously, he wasn’t taking this well. I played with the sheet that had rumpled between us.
His fingers shifted from my neck to my chin, pulling it up so I’d look him in the eyes.
“Who?”
“A f—” I was going to say, “friend.” But we both knew that was a lie. “A guy I’d been interested in.”
Sketch took a deep breath in through his nose. Then out through his mouth. Just like I’d taught him to.
“Are you box breathing?”
“I’m trying not to lose my shit, okay?”
“He’s in prison.” Just admitting that made me look away again.
“I need a name. Because he’s going to leave prison in a box.”
“Sketch, you don’t have to?—”
Those eyes of his flared. I worried about what was going on behind them. He’d changed in just a few seconds from soft and artistic and attentive to what could only be described as icy cold. He was ready to kill. The eagerness and hunger for death were right there in his eyes. If I had half of his artistic talent, I might be able to capture that danger, but I knew I didn’t. Still, I noted it in my heart.
This man was dangerous. With that revelation, I knew why he earned his place in the Destroyers. They didn’t take on weak men, not the club here, anyway. Whispers all hinted that each and every one of them had to kill someone before they earned their patch. I couldn’t imagine that. I mean, someone was bound to screw up and they’d all be in prison, right? But I could imagine that Sketch had killed someone.
“I should get going,” I said half-heartedly. I didn’t want to leave, but I should. I really should.
“No.”
“Sketch. It’s time.”
Instead of letting me go, he kissed me. And kept kissing me until I was flat on my back.
Did I want to be here?
His kisses were soft. Perfect. The way his fingers touched my skin, perfect. The roughness of his working man’s hands scratched lightly, but they felt divine. Especially when he stilled, both hands placed carefully on my waist. “I don’t want you to go. But if you have to…” He trailed off and sat up, leaving me bereft. I followed him like we were attached by some magnetic force.
I was iron. I could not be broken. Only reforged. But iron was also tuned to its true north. And somehow, my stupid compass pointed right at Sketch. I felt safe here. I felt cherished and loved, and… it was terrible to admit, but his offer to kill for me? That was hot as fuck. I was so screwed up. Which meant, while I should go, while I should pretend that I was still a good girl, there was no way it was true. And I was sick of lying to myself. I was sick of being half of who I was.
“I don’t have to go.” I leaned in and initiated a scorching kiss.
He shifted us until I was on top again. Our bodies lined up. He pulled away.
“Hold that thought.” Sketch twisted to reach for another condom from his nightstand. I helped him by rolling it on, then seating myself on his dick.
God, he felt good inside me. I didn’t want to leave at all. My slow pace was matched by his gently upward arching at each grind. He was beautiful. He thought I was beautiful.
“You’re a dream.” He caressed my breasts as I rocked against him.
“I’m real,” I countered.
