Page 79 of Make Them Bleed
“Hi,” he answers, voice low, like a secret meant only for me.
He backs me up until my spine meets the wall, his palm braced beside my head, the other hand at my waist. He doesn’t rush. He kisses me like he’s reading a map he already memorized, revisiting every turn. Heat spills through me, quick and sweet. When he pauses, his forehead rests against mine.
“You good?” he asks, and the question steadies me.
“Yes.” I tilt up, tasting coffee and autumn on him. “More.”
We move together, a messy, smiling tangle toward the couch. He catches my laugh with his mouth and I catch his name with myhands, splayed over the beat of his heart. He skims his knuckles along my jaw, reverent, then frames my face like I’m the only thing he plans on holding tonight.
“Juno,” he says, like it matters how he says it.
“Yeah?”
“I want you riding me all night long.”
I smile because I like his idea—so much that I rise slowly, letting him watch me unfurl. He sits up, head tipped against the back of the couch, eyes locked on mine like he’s pinning me to the room with nothing but a look. I start to move, a lazy sway of my hips to the rhythm of my own pulse, no music but the soft hush of our breathing.
“Yes,” he exhales—low, rough, wrecked—and heat skates over my skin.
One shoe thuds to the floor, then the other. “You like this?” I tease, fingertips tracing the curve of my waist.
His brown eyes go molten. “I fucking love it.”
The words light me from the inside. I keep going, slow and sure. Fabric whispers as I gather my dress and peel it over my head. My hair crackles free in a dark halo. A strap slides off my shoulder. Goosebumps chase the path of my fingers. I turn just enough to show him the line of my back, the sway of my hips, the hint of lace. His throat works as his hands fist in the cushion like he’s holding himself in place.
“Keep going,” he murmurs.
I do. I climb into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, the last scrap of fabric a playful dare between us. Heat blooms where his palms land—claiming and reverent.
“Mine?” he breathes against my collarbone.
“Yours,” I whisper back, and the word sparks through me like lightning.
His hands settle, warm and sure, and my pulse trips. I thread my fingers into his hair and tug him closer until his mouth finds the place beneath my ear that makes my knees go unreliable.
“Juno,” he says there, the word a vow against my skin.
I rock once in his lap and feel the shiver that rips through him. He bites back a curse, forehead tipping to mine like he needs the contact to stay sane. I smooth my palms over his shoulders, down his chest, memorizing the heat of him through cotton, the way his muscle shifts under my touch. He is all restraint and reverence, and I’m all spark and invitation.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs.
“I won’t,” I breathe. “Not tonight.”
He exhales like I just gave him oxygen. His mouth comes back to mine—deeper, hungrier—while his thumbs trace slow circles at my hips that steal coherent thought. The last scrap of lace becomes an afterthought, a soft whisper to the floor. He lifts me like I weigh nothing and eases me down on the couch, staying close, never breaking the kiss until he has to, just to look at me.
“Beautiful,” he says, like it’s a fact he’s filing away for later.
I pull him with me, greedy for the press of him, for the way his control frays when I drag my nails lightly down his back. Hehisses through his teeth, then laughs under his breath before kissing a path along my throat, my collarbone, the center of my chest where my heartbeat stumbles for him.
“Stay,” I whisper.
“Always,” he answers, and somehow I believe him.
He pushes up for a quick second to remove his clothing, and once he’s done he presses his body to mine. He grabs my wrists, tying them together with his shirt he snatches from the floor.
“You’re really good at this,” I say as I try to wrangle my hands free.
He smiles. “You trust me, right?”
