Page 4 of Burned in Stone
My heart sinks as I lay the cards down. He doesn’t even need to show his. That smug, knowing tilt of his mouth tells me everything before he turns over a straight.
“My turn, angel.” His voice drops to a low growl that vibrates through the table. My fingers find the button on my skirt. Trembling slightly.
“Or,” he says, gaze pinning me in place, “you can tell me what you’re running from.”
“Who says I’m running?”
Cash laughs, low and rumbling. “Angel, the second I asked why you’re in Stoneheart, you started stripping. And while I appreciate the view, I can still think with the right head.” He taps his temple.
He’s right. The bastard’s right. He’s seen straight through the flimsy armor I threw up, and the realization hits hard. My secrets are mine—uncomfortable things I’ve fought to bury—and I’ll be damned if I dig them up for a biker with pretty eyes and a lucky hand.
He wants to know why I’m here? Too bad. Answering means resurrecting the woman who made herself smaller and smaller until there was nothing left. And I swore I’d never be her again.
My jaw tightens. Slowly, deliberately, I reach for the button once more. The zipper slides down, loud in the silence.
“I think I’d rather just take my clothes off.”
My choice. My body. My terms.
His eyes stay locked on mine as I stand. The worn denim slides down my hips and pools at my feet in silent defiance. I step out of it. Left in nothing but black lace.
The air hums, thick with something darker than desire. A challenge. A battle of wills.
He rises from the booth, movements fluid and predatory. Before I can brace, he’s behind me. Warm, calloused fingers trail over my shoulder. A shockwave shoots straight to my core.
“You agreed to the rules, angel,” he murmurs, his breath a ghost against my ear. “Why play a game of secrets if you’re not going to play fair?” His thumb presses into the hollow of my collarbone, a silent demand for the truth I refuse to give.
A shudder runs through me, equal parts pleasure and resistance. He wants my truth. Wants me to bare the parts I’ve spent years locking away. But that voice—the one that sounds too much like my ex, like my mother—whispers:You’re not good enough. You never were. You never will be.
I spent thirty years listening to that voice. I’m done. My secrets are scars, not trophies to be won in a poker game.
“Fair?” I breathe, tilting my head back to meet his gaze. “This stopped being about fair the second you cheated.”
His smirk is pure, unadulterated sin. “You’re right, angel. This isn’t about fair.”
Before I can react, his hand tangles in my hair. He fists the fiery curls and yanks my head back to expose my throat. His mouth crashes down on mine—bruising, demanding, stealing the air from my lungs. Staking a claim.
He lifts me easily and sets me on the edge of the table. His mouth breaks from mine. Hot, wet kisses trail down my jaw, my neck. He sucks hard just below my ear. A bruising possession that will leave a mark. Part of me revels in it.
As he brands me, his fingers find the clasp of my bra. It gives way with a soft click. The lace is tossed aside.
Cool air hits my skin, followed by the heat of his stare. I should cover myself, but I don’t. I hold his gaze, daring him to do more than just look.
“So fucking perfect.”
He eases me back onto the cool wood. His body presses down on me, a heavy, delicious weight, as his mouth continues its exploration. His hands slide up my ribs, then cover my breasts.Thumbs circling my nipples, coaxing them into hard, aching peaks. A low groan escapes my lips—pure, unadulterated need. I haven’t made that sound in years. His mouth finds one nipple. He laves the peak with a hot, wet tongue. A jolt shoots straight to my core. My back arches off the table as his hand slides down my stomach, scorching a path over my skin until his calloused fingers hook into the waistband of my panties.
This is mine. This moment, this heat, this want—all mine. I’m choosing this, choosing him, choosing to feel good in my own skin. The woman I used to be would have been ashamed of every flaw, every imperfection, every way she wasn’t enough. But that woman doesn’t live here anymore. This body is mine, and right now I’m giving it to a man who looks at me like I’m everything.
“God, angel,” he groans against my breast, his voice a raw, ragged thing. “I’ve been dying to know what you taste like.”
He kisses his way down my stomach, slowly pulling the lace from my hips. I’m ready, so ready to let him. To give him this and every other part of me.
Then a shrill, electronic chime shatters the charged silence. Immediately followed by a deeper, buzzing tone. Two phones ringing in jarring, insistent harmony—his on the table next to us, mine from the pocket of my discarded skirt.
We both freeze, the moment broken by the competing ringtones.
“Fuck,” Cash breathes. His grip on my panties tightens for just a moment before he steps back with another curse that would make a sailor blush.
