Page 72 of Double Standards
“Louder,” he commands.
“More!” I scream, my walls clenching hard around his thick cock, drinking him in like I’ll never get enough.
His hips slam faster, harder. My fingers curl into fists, clutching the sheets like a lifeline. His weight crushes mine, and he leans down, tangling our hands together, anchoring me to the moment.
“Come for me, baby.” His palm strikes my ass again, the sharp sting a cruelly sweet reminder of his possession.
“Axel!” My toes curl as the fire inside me ignites, shattering me apart.
We fall over the edge together, my knees buckling as waves of pleasure crash through me. For a moment, the world blacks out, and I’m nothing but trembling heat and shattered breath.
He jerks his hips twice more and stills, trembling, spilling inside the condom. I feel the warmth, the pulse of him pressed tight against me. His groans rumble deep in my chest as he pants beside my ear.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough and utterly spent.
My face stays buried in the sheets as I try to catch my breath, the tingling numbness spreading through my limbs. Then I feel the gentlest touch, his fingers lifting my chin. The softness of his kiss after the storm of his fury takes me by surprise. I’ve never been fucked like that before. Though I’m sore and trembling, and aching in every nerve, all I want is more.
A lazy, satisfied smile drifts over my lips and Axel mirrors it. His hand slides possessively down my spine, and as the heat of his body presses into mine, I realize—whatever this is, whatever we’ve become—I’ll gladly let it ruin me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m finally relaxed. The tension that’s been clinging to me—clinging to Cassie and this entire damn case—eases just enough for me to catch my breath.
Cassie is curled against me, head on my chest, soft snores escaping her lips. She’s like oxygen after a long-held breath. Just when I thought I’d choke, she appeared. She’s surprised me in more ways than I can count, and I know now, this isn’t a one-time thing.
It’s still late. I haven’t slept. Not really. I’m wide awake, staring down at her and wondering if she realizes why she’s here. We both know what brought her to my place, but I doubt she understands just how much I know.
I’ve had Max tailing that fuckhead for the past two weeks. I wouldn’t rest easy until I knew the ins and outs of Cassie’s life. And that roommate of hers? He did me a favor. I didn’t even need to step in and take him out, he did the job for me.
My thoughts spiral and at some point, sleep claims me. But when I wake, the space beside me is cold. Her scent lingers on my sheets, on my skin. It’s intoxicating. And yet, without her there, the bed feels empty.
Her phone’s still on the nightstand. Her clothes are in the same damp heap on the floor.She hasn’t left.
I throw off the covers, pull on a pair of gym shorts, and head downstairs. What greets me is an image I won’t forget; a vision that instantly has my cock twitching.
Cassie’s bent over, rummaging through my kitchen cupboards. She’s wearing only my shirt, the hem barely covering her ass. Her golden hair is a tousled mess in a ponytail where she’s tried to hide our long night of fucking. She’s all soft curves and tempting lines.
“My shirt looks good on you,” I murmur, voice low and unapologetic.
She startles like I’ve struck a match in a quiet room. Her spine straightens immediately, cheeks blooming a soft pink as her fingers twitch at the hem of the oversized fabric. My shirt on her—fuck. It’s oversized on purpose, but it clings in all the right places, one shoulder slipping off slightly to expose a line of bare skin that’s been haunting my thoughts since I woke up.
“I was looking for the coffee,” she stammers, avoiding my eyes like they might burn her.
She’s flustered. Good. That means last night still lingers for her too—the heat of it, the chaos, the way I had her saying my name like a prayer and a curse at once.
“Top right,” I say, pointing toward the cupboard.
She pads across the kitchen barefoot, the hem of the shirt dancing around her thighs with each step. My shirt. On her. It does something to me I can’t name. Like claiming. Like marking her without having to say a word. I want her to keep it. I want her in nothing but that shirt every morning, making coffee and pretending we’re normal people with normal hearts that don’t come with guns and violence.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, taking a sip.
“I wanted to talk to you,” she replies softly, gripping her cup like it’s grounding her. She’s biting her lip which shouldn’t send my mind into overdrive, but it does. I can’t get the image out ofmy head, of her lips wrapped around my cock, her mouth parted on a silent scream as I deliver—fuck knows how many—orgasms.
I shake my head and attempt to refocus. “What about?” I raise a brow.
Silence.
I already know. It’s about last night—or maybe the trial. Probably both. We’ve danced around both subjects so many times that it’s a damn maze at this point. I’ve been in fucked up situations, I’ve been in confusing situations. But I’ve never lost myself in someone like this before.
