Page 66 of Dead of Wynter

How am I ever meant to leave her when she’s saying shit like that? I force the thought from my mind and focus on the task at hand. My hand snakes down between us and carefully parts her folds. “Has anyone ever touched this pussy, Wynter?”

“No, just me.”

“And who do you think about when you touch yourself?” I ask as I circle her clit carefully. As selfish as I am, I’m not going to take her virginity without warming her up first. I’m not a complete monster.

“I think about you.” Her hips lift from the mattress, begging for more, and I’m happy to oblige. I slide my fingers down to her entrance before entering her with one finger, eliciting an erotic moan from her throat.

“Is that so? What am I doing in these thoughts?”

“This. You’re touching me, fucking me, claiming me.”

The pressure in my balls feels like they’re about to explode just from the sound of those words falling from her pouty lips, but I take deep breaths to calm myself. At this rate, I’m going to blow the moment I slide into her.

“Fuck, Wynter.”

I withdraw my finger from her tight heat and press a second in beside it, her pussy stretching around them so beautifully. Part of me wants to draw back onto my haunches and watch them disappear inside her, but I can’t miss a moment of her eyes, or even her sharp intakes of breath each time my fingers brush against the place inside her threatening to detonate her.

Wynter’s arms wrap around my neck and she tugs me down until our lips crash together and a strangled moan tears from her throat as I increase the pressure on her G-spot. I need her to come so I can get inside her, and I’ve never been known for my patience.

I feel the moment she reaches the edge and hold her there for just a moment, just long enough to say, “I want you to scream for me, dove.”

And scream she does. Her body shakes beneath me, and her eyes close as she’s overwhelmed by the pleasure I’ve given her. Her tight cunt grips my fingers and the mere thought of sliding my cock into her has my balls tingling with the intense need to come.

The moment Wynter’s body stops shaking from the intensity of her release, I slide my cock into position, notching it at her entrance and groaning at the feel of her wetness on the head of my cock. “Are you sure?” I ask.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Hours later, I have Wynter bundled up in front of me, the sweet scent of her shampoo clouding my vision with each breath I take. Over the years, I’ve had my fair share of sex, but what we just did was so much more than that. It was two forces coming together, two people who have longed after one another for so many years, finally allowing themselves a moment of weakness.

I couldn’t bring myself to leave while she was awake, couldn’t bring myself to see her heart break in front of my eyes. I hold her for another moment, committing the moment to memory, because that’s all it will ever be. I will never hold her in my arms again or breathe in her scent. I’ll never kiss her, or touch her, or tell her how much I love her. So this is all I have.

When I finally tear myself from the bed, I spend another few minutes staring at her sleeping form, the angel laid out in front of me, and then I dress quietly before fleeing from the house like the coward I am.

I never deserved Wynter Saint James, but after what I just did, there’s a special place in hell for me.

49

Wynter

It takes a lot to intimidate me. I grew up in a mafia family, my brothers are both scary motherfuckers, I stood up to our enemy at my parents’ funeral without so much as flinching, and I have a friend who genuinely enjoys torturing people. But somehow Tommy isn’t the scariest person standing in the room right now.

I’m starting to think that maybe I should have waited with Snow and Emerson while this conversation took place, more so for self-preservation than anything else, but now looking at the four men who are taking up most of the space in the room, I’m not sure I can hack this.

Storm and I are sitting behind his desk and having the huge wooden structure between me and them is oddly comforting. Everett has his laptop on his lap to my left, and Tommy and Rayne lurk on either side of us in case someone makes a wrong move.

The other men, the blindingly good looking, scary as hell men, stand in front of us with varying degrees of interest written across their faces.

Tommy steps forward with a strained smile etched across his lips. The only time I’ve really seen him happy is when he’s been kicking the shit out of someone, so I’m not particularly surprised by the discomfort on his face.

“I’ll do a quick round of introductions and then we can get started.” He points to the first man who if I had to hazard a guess I would think is the leader.

He’s dressed impeccably in an expensive charcoal suit and his copper hair is styled to perfection, but it’s his eyes that caught me the moment he stepped foot in the room. One blue, one green, but both as mesmerizing as the other. He’s older than the others, probably falling within his mid-forties, not that that makes him any less attractive.

“This is Crew, he is much like the Storm of the operation, however, does tend to be a bit more… hands on.” He gestures to the next man towering over the others.

He must be six foot seven easily and built with muscle on muscle. His button-up shirt is unbuttoned at the top and sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos across scarred skin. His dark hair is clipped short on the sides and slightly longer on the top and if I didn’t know better I would think he has a military background. His eyes look like he would rather be anywhere than here, cold, dark and disinterested.

“This is Kaos.”

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