Page 102 of Lady and the Butcher
“Yours,” I whispered, already breathless.
His hands slid under my dress, callused palms rough against the inside of my thighs. He lifted me, carried me across the room like I weighed nothing, and laid me on the bed. The quilt smelled of sun and clean laundry, homely things, but they turned foreign with him standing over me like a predator deciding where to bite first.
He stripped my dress over my head, tossed it aside. His gaze burned down my body. “Look at you,” he rasped. “You’re every answer I ever needed.”
He didn’t give me time to reply. His mouth was on my neck, down my chest, teeth scraping, tongue soothing. He licked one nipple until I gasped, then bit it lightly, smirking when I arched into his mouth.
“Atticus—”
He slid lower, kissing down my stomach, pausing at the band of my panties. He hooked them with his teeth, dragged them down slow, eyes on me the whole time. When he finally spread me with his thumbs and put his mouth where I ached, I cried out, head slamming back against the pillow.
He licked me like he had all night, like my pleasure was something he could mine forever. His tongue circled, stroked, then plunged. His growl vibrated into me when I fisted his hair and pulled.
“Come for me, Lady.” His voice was a command, low and rough.
I broke, hips shoving against his mouth, thighs trembling as heat tore through me. He didn’t let up. He lapped me through it, coaxing another shudder before finally rising, his face slick with me.
He kissed me, hard, letting me taste myself on his tongue. “I’ll never get enough,” he said. “Of any part of you.”
Then he shoved his pants down, freed himself, and pressed the thick head of his cock against my entrance.
“You ready to take me?”
“Yes,” I gasped. “Always.”
He thrust in slow, stretching me, filling me until I cried out again. He bottomed out with a groan that shook his chest, forehead pressed to mine.
“Fuck, Simone. You feel like the life I almost lost.”
He started moving, long, deep strokes that made me claw his back. Every thrust stole my breath, gave it back, stole it again. He set a rhythm—patient, relentless—the kind that made me want to sob and scream and beg all at once.
“You terrify me,” I whispered.
His eyes blazed. “Good. Because I’ll terrify you every night, until the day you die wearing my ring.”
His pace quickened, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing off the walls. Sweat dripped from his temple onto my throat. My nails raked down his back and he hissed, slammed harder.
“Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
“Again.”
“I’m yours, Atticus.”
His hand slid between us, thumb finding my clit, pressing until sparks detonated behind my eyes. I came around him, screaming his name, my whole body clenching. He groaned deep, drove into me a few more times, then spilled inside with a raw sound, burying his face against my chest.
We collapsed together, tangled in sweat and breath. His weight on me didn’t crush; it grounded.
Minutes—or maybe years—passed before he shifted, reached to the nightstand.
I thought he was grabbing water. Instead, he came back with a ring. Simple gold, warm from his palm. Inside, etched so small I had to squint, was a tiny cleaver laid on its side—set down, not raised. Not a weapon anymore. A tool, retired. A promise that he’d put the blade away for us.
My breath caught.
He held it out. “Marry me.”
Not a question. A vow disguised as a demand.
