Page 61 of Burned in Stone
I grip her hips hard enough to bruise, trying to pretend I’ve got even a scrap of restraint left. But I never really do where Mercy’s concerned. I can lie to myself all I want, but the truth is simple—she’s the one steering this. Has been for a long damn time. I handed her my heart somewhere between that first time I saw her behind the bar at Devil’s and every moment after, and she’s been holding it ever since.
And right now, with her tight heat wrapped around me and her nails digging into my shoulders, I’m not even pretending to be in control anymore. I’m just... here. Present. Vulnerable. Completely fucking hers.
“Fuck, angel.” My voice breaks on the words. “You feel so fucking perfect.”
She rocks faster, water sloshing over the edge of the tub with each movement. Her head falls back, exposing the long line of her throat, and I can’t help myself. I lean forward and bite down on that exposed skin, marking her the way I’ve wanted to since the first time I saw her. She gasps, her movements stuttering, and I soothe the bite with my tongue.
“Cash,” she whimpers, and hearing my name from her lips, all breathy and desperate, nearly undoes me.
“That’s it, angel. Take what you need.” I guide her hips, helping her find the rhythm that has her trembling. “Show me how good I make you feel.”
Her breath quickens, and I lace my fingers through her wet hair, tugging her down for a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue, savage and sweet. She moans, and the sound turns my insides molten, wild. My angel has never pretended to be shy, not with me, notsince that first real kiss. But the way she clings to me now, legs tight around my waist, makes me feel like I’m the only thing keeping her from flying apart.
And that’s what I want. What I need. I need to be the force that holds her together, even as I pull her apart in every other way.
The water sloshes louder, Mercy’s hair a crimson veil stuck to her shoulders and my chest. She’s close, I can feel it with every shuddering breath and hitch in her voice.
“Fuck, Mercy.” I grip her ass with both hands, lifting her up and slamming her down again, harder this time. The water sloshes everywhere and she cries out—a nonsense sound—over and over.
Fuck. She’s so loud. But I want her to be louder, want the whole clubhouse to hear. I kiss her open mouth, swallowing the noise, huffing into her as the pleasure builds.
“Touch yourself,” I command, voice barely above a growl. “Show me what you used to do when you thought I was out in the street, watching your windows at night.”
She groans into my mouth, her hand finding the sweet spot between us, fingers working herself in tight little circles. I keep moving her on my cock, watching her pleasure build, the way her lips tremble and her eyes go glazed and dark. “Don’t stop,” she gasps. “Please don’t ever stop?—”
“I’m not going anywhere, angel.” My own control is razor-thin, heat gathering at the base of my spine. “Come for me. I want to feel you cream all over my cock.”
She tenses, her whole body clenching around me, her nails raking up my arms as she locks eyes with me and shatters, notbothering to hide how wrecked I make her. Her orgasm drags me over the edge right after—a brutal, sharp finish that feels like something torn loose and set free after years of being pent up.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, Mercy sprawled half-collapsed on top of me, both of us slick with sweat and bathwater and cum, the bathroom an absolute disaster zone. When I finally move, it’s only to hold her tighter, to press kisses to her temple and jaw, and to drag her down against my chest, so all I feel is her heartbeat and breath.
Her hair is a tangled, soaking mess. I smooth it down absently, because if my hands aren’t on her I worry I’ll lose her to the cooling water and white noise in my brain.
At last, Mercy shifts to the side, thigh pressed to mine, her eyes soft and unfocused. “You know what’s crazy?” she asks, head rolling toward me on the edge of a sigh.
“Other than you fucking me senseless in a bathtub?”
She laughs, then snuggles in and presses a gentle kiss against my neck. “I think I’m happy. Here. Even when the whole world is burning down outside, I feel—I don’t know—safe.”
I pull my head back to look at her, and fuck, I’m still knocked out by her beauty. Especially now, with her eyes half-lidded, lips swollen from kissing, skin blotched with bite marks and hickeys. She looks wild and ruined and so fucking stunning it makes my chest hurt.
“Yeah,” I say, and the truth of it hits me like a freight train. “Me too.”
I didn’t think I’d ever get to say that and mean it. Didn’t think happiness was something people like me got to keep. Street kidswho learned early that everything gets taken away don’t usually end up here—in heated marble bathrooms with women who see past the scars and choose to stay anyway.
But here I am. Here she is. And for the first time since Bones pulled me off those streets, I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m just... happy.
Terrified as fuck, but happy.
We lie there until the water gets cold, then I haul both our asses out of the tub and wrap her in a towel. I know she hates the cold, so I get her bundled in a robe then set about untangling her hair with my fingers and a wide-toothed comb. The mundane act calms both of us—her sitting on my lap and humming softly as I work, me hypnotized by the simple rhythm of taking care of her. I don’t know why I love doing this, but I do.
But then her cellphone buzzes from the coffee table, the sharp sound an unwelcome intruder. At first, we just ignore it. But the buzzing starts again, dragging both of us out of the comfortable cocoon we built together.
“Maybe it’s Kya,” she reasons, getting up off my lap. “She could be getting slammed at the bar and needs help.”
She pads across the room, squinting at the phone. I watch her from the bedroom doorway—her posture wary, jaw set. Some part of me knows before she even checks the number that it isn’t Kya.
“What’s wrong?”
