Page 98 of The Love You Fight For
“Your sister blames me. Your father blames me.”
“They’re wrong.” I rub my thumb over her jaw, then lower my forehead to hers. “None of it is your fault. None of it.”
I say it and I mean it because it’s true. I don’t blame her for any of it. She’s just as much a victim of his evil as we are. Probably even more so. It’s daunting and thrilling to think that I’ve probably only grazed the surface of the dark well that is Sam Harper.
“I’m going to make him pay,” she whispers, her lips ghosting over mine. “I’m going to burn it all to the fucking ground.”
I smile. It’s sad, but it’s real.
“I know.”
I’m scared for her. I’m fucking terrified. I want to wrap her in a cocoon and protect her from the world. From her father. From everything that’s ever hurt her.
But I know she’d never allow it. That’s not the woman I’ve fallen for.
Sam is a warrior. She’s a fucking fighter. And I wouldn’t be the man for her if I didn’t respect that. If I didn’t fight for her, for the woman she is, right alongside her.
It’s a struggle. It’s my natural instinct to take up arms for the people I love. To do everything in my power to lessen their burdens. But with Sam, I have to do that in a different way. I have to fight for her from the wings. I have to let her lead the charge. She wouldn’t be okay with anything else.
“Let me be your peace, princess.”
TWENTY-FOUR
When Sam nods,my heart swells.
She twines her arms around my neck and kisses me, deep and slow. I almost tell her that I love her, but I don’t. I hold it back but pour every ounce of it into this kiss, hoping she can feel it. Hoping she knows. Hoping that when she’s ready, she’ll welcome it.
She breaks the kiss and steps back against the kitchen island, her sky-high heels making her the perfect height to lift herself and slide onto it easily. Then she widens her legs slowly. Her dress rides up her thighs, just enough to show me her white-lace-covered pussy, and all the blood rushes to my dick.
She smirks, then runs her finger up and down her inner thigh.
“Should I leave the heels on or take them off?”
Fuck, this woman.
I stalk toward her.
“On. Definitely on.”
I step between her legs and slide my hands under her dress, and she lifts herself just enough that I can slide it over her ass. Then I kiss her, this one more heated than before. Our tongues dance with one another, massaging and tangling. I let my hands rove up and down her body before moving lower and rubbing her pussy through the lace of her underwear.
“You and this lace,” I say against her lips. “It’s fucking torture.”
She grins.
“It makes me feel sexy.”
I nip at her jaw before kissing her neck.
“You would be sexy in a trash bag while covered in mud, princess.”
She gasps and shoves at me lightly, but before she can tell me off, I kiss her lips again and slide my fingers into the side of her panties. She moans into my mouth as I swipe my fingers through her arousal, then rub her clit in small, tight circles. I kiss down her neck, then bite the swell of her breast through the fabric of her dress. She arches into me, eager and wanting.
I reach behind her with my other hand and find the zipper of her dress. When she realizes what I’m doing, she helps me tug the zipper down until it’s loose enough to take off.
“Arms up,” I say, and she raises her arms above her head.
I gather her dress and carefully take it off her before dropping it to the floor.
