Page 166 of Broken Pieces
Her hand lifts, palm flattening over my chest, right over the heart I pretend doesn’t beat for anyone.
“You’re such an idiot,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “But I’m your idiot.”
She exhales. Her eyes don’t move from mine. And then she says, “I love you too, Zane.”
The words land and for a second, I forget how to fucking breathe.
No one’s ever said that to me before.
It wraps around my ribs, wedges between the cracks I didn’t know were still bleeding.
“You mean it?” I ask, and fuck, I hate how broken I sound.
She nods, eyes glistening. “Yeah. I mean-”
I don’t let her finish. I kiss her like I’ve been crawling through glass, and she’s the first breath I’ve had in weeks.
It’s not soft.
It’s fucking brutal.
All teeth and heat and need. Her bag hits the floor with a thud, and I grip her hips, yanking her against me. My hands find the dip of her spine, the curve of her ass.
She moans into my mouth, fingers in my hair as if she’s anchoring herself to something solid.
I bite her bottom lip, and she gasps. Every bruise on my body disappears under the press of her body against mine.
I pull back, but only just.
“You’re mine, Skylar,” I rasp, voice strained.
With calloused fingers, I slip my hands under her shirt, causing her breath to hitch. Pressing my hard cock against her, she lets out a sexy moan that always ignites my desire for her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Skylar
Hishandsareonthe hem of my shirt, chest rising with that storm I’ve only ever seen when he’s about to fuck or fight.
He yanks it off, taking my bra with it.
My breath stutters when his mouth closes around my nipple, sucking until my spine bows. I’m already shaking, every nerve igniting.
He pulls back just enough to yank off his own shirt, and my breath snags.
His chest is a map of bruises, purple, swollen and raw. I trace one with my fingers, barely touching it, but he flinches anyway.
I press my lips to one bruise, then another, until he’s growling under his breath. I trace one near his ribs without thinking.
His hands grip my waist and he flips us onto the bed, so that I am straddling him.
“Christ,” he whispers, voice rough, eyes burning with a hunger that knocks the air out of me.
His fingers skim the slope of my breast, trailing down my side until they settle at the curve of my hip. His thumb moves in slow, lazy circles.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, voice lower now, edged with something tender that makes my chest ache.
