Page 94 of The Reaper
She opened her mouth, then paused, her gaze shifting, a look I knew too well—hot, hungry, the same one from the shower that set my blood alight.
“I need to change,” she repeated, slower, her voice a low burn that sent a jolt straight to my cock.
I froze, arousal hitting me like a freight train, my eyes locked on hers. That look—fuck, it undid me, a promise of something raw and unstoppable.
We barely made it upstairs to her loft, the door slamming shut behind us. She was on me before I could blink, her hands tearing through my shirt, buttons scattering, her fingers raking my chest, hungry, burning. She peeled my jeans down, her eyes devouring me—scars, muscles, my cock springing hard as she freed it, her touch electric.
“What’s gotten into you?” I asked, voice rough, half-laughing, half-dazed as she pushed me against the wall, her nails grazing my abs, sending shivers through me.
She laughed, a low, wicked sound that made my pulse race. “You’ve gotten into me, Caleb. The way you handled Michael—for me.”
I blinked, caught off guard. Violence usually sent people running, especially women, but her eyes blazed with desire, a fire that matched mine. “You liked that?”
“I loved it,” she said, her hand wrapping around my cock, stroking slow, deliberate, making me groan, my head tipping back. “You did it for me.”
“Of course,” I said, voice thick, my hands gripping her hips, pulling her closer. “I’d do anything for you.”
“Anything?” she asked, her eyes gleaming, a challenge in her voice that made my blood hum.
I nodded, my breath hitching as she stroked harder, her touch a spark to my fuse.
“Then eat my pussy,” she said, voice raw, “until I forget those fucking notes.”
I was all in, my need to claim her flaring, a vow to make her world right with every touch.
I lifted her onto a sturdy console table, her dress hiking up, revealing her thighs, her black lace panties already damp. I tore them off, the fabric ripping, and she gasped, her legs spreading as I dropped to my knees.
My mouth found her, hot and slick, my tongue sliding through her folds, slow at first, savoring her taste—sweet, musky, pure Meghan. I licked long, deliberate strokes, teasing her entrance, then sweeping higher, drawing moans that echoed in the loft. My hands gripped her thighs, spreading her wider, my fingers sinking into her soft flesh as I sucked gently, then harder, her hips bucking against my mouth, her breath hitching as she fucked my face.
She was a wildfire, her moans raw, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer, demanding more. I gave it, my tongue relentless, swirling and dipping, tasting every inch of her, my lips grazing her sensitive skin as she trembled. I slid a finger inside, then two, curling slow, matching the rhythm of my mouth, her walls clenching as she gasped my name. Her thighs shook, her breath ragged, and I didn’t stop, my tongue working faster, deeper, until she bucked hard, her orgasm rippingthrough her, a cry that set my blood ablaze. I kept going, licking softer now, drawing out every aftershock, her body quivering under my hands as I cupped her ass, her moans a symphony I’d never tire of.
She pulled me up, her eyes wild, and shoved me toward the sofa.
“Sit,” she commanded, voice thick with need. “I’m going to fuck you fast, hard, and then you’re telling me why they call you The Reaper.”
I froze, cock throbbing, as I sank onto the sofa, the leather cool against my skin. “Where’d you hear that?”
She straddled me, her hand wrapping around my cock, stroking with a hunger that made me groan, my head tipping back. “Overheard Ryker on the phone. Sounded like respect.”
Before I could respond, she lowered herself, taking me in, her heat tight and perfect, a moan ripping from my throat.
She fucked me with a carnal delight that would’ve knocked me back if I’d been standing, her hips rolling fast, hard, her fingers digging into my shoulders. Her breasts bounced, her eyes locked on mine, wild and commanding, claiming me as much as I claimed her. She rode me with a rhythm that was all her—fierce, unapologetic, her walls clenching as she moved, driving me to the edge. I gripped her hips, thrusting up to meet her, our bodies slamming together, the sofa creaking under the force. She came again, screaming, pulling me with her, my release blinding, stars bursting behind my eyes as she milked me dry.
Panting, she collapsed against me, her breath hot on my neck, her voice a low purr. “Now, tell me about The Reaper.”
I grinned, still catching my breath, my hands roaming her back, sated but ready for more. She was my fire, my mission, and I’d tell her everything. After I made her mine again.
32
MEGHAN
Caleb’s hand never left my thigh as we drove along the waterfront. Charleston had its share of grand homes and old money, but what rose in the distance made all of it look like stage props.
Dominion Hall didn’t just sit on the harbor—it commanded it. A sprawl of stone, glass, and steel stretched along the point, the structure blending brutal fortress with modern elegance. The stone was the color of storm clouds, cut into clean, deliberate lines that spoke of permanence and power.
I’d heard whispers about the Danes’ compound—their “castle,” as some called it. But hearing about it and seeing it with my own eyes were two very different things. This wasn’t a place you stumbled upon; it was a destination, the end of a long, winding private drive with gates tall enough to keep out armies. Literally.
My pulse picked up as the security gates slid open without hesitation, as if they’d been expecting us. Caleb drove us up a broad, paved lane that curved toward the main entrance. From here, the harbor stretched wide behind the house, the watergleaming like liquid steel. Boats bobbed on the private dock, and in the distance, I caught the faint glint of a helipad. Of course, they had one.
