Page 15 of Seven Sons (Gypsy Brothers)

s pumping in and out, hard and fast, and my brain does battle with my body. So many conflicting emotions are vying for my attention, I am completely and utterly overwhelmed.

Ohhhh.

I open my eyes to see him above me and am immediately a scared, bleeding fifteen-year-old girl again.

No. Don’t think about that. Pretend he’s someone else. Remember why you’re here.

And that delicious knowledge of my deceit stirs something carnal in my belly, a snaking kind of desire that coils around me and squeezes tightly. Yes. Better.

I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, the thrill of my treachery almost enough to make me orgasm on its own.

“That feels so good,” I moan, and he smirks because he thinks he is fucking me, when I am the one fucking him.

He is a skilled lover. I don’t have anyone to compare him to, other than my high-school sweetheart from Nebraska, but as he carries me to the brink of climax on a white-hot wave of pleasure and lies, I cannot help but scream.

Afterwards, we lie together, catching our breath. I look at him out of the corner of my eye to see him staring back.

“Where’ve you been my whole life, baby?” he asks, running his hands over my breasts and between my legs. His touch is everywhere, all over me, marking me as his, a possession that has been claimed.

I smile coyly. “In high school, probably,” I giggle.

“Hey, now,” he replies playfully. “Don’t tell me I gotta prove to you that age doesn’t matter?”

“I think you just did,” I breathe.

We lie there in silence for a few blessed moments. It gives me time to think. Time to plan.

Dornan’s voice strikes that silence, shattering

my moment of refuge.

“I just have one question for you, baby girl.”

One question. Sounds easy. I turn to face him and nod in anticipation.

“Your ex. What was his name?”

It’s one teeny, tiny white lie. “Michael,” I say, my fake backstory flashing before my fake blue eyes. “Michael Trevine.”

He nods. “He’ll never hurt you again. Why won’t he hurt you again?”

I smile dreamily, imagining the look on his face when they put him in orange overalls and slam his jail cell shut forever. Maybe they’ll give him the death penalty.

They should.

“Because,” I say playfully, tracing his lips with my finger, “I’m yours?”

He just fucking laughs. “What have I done to deserve you?” he breathes.

Now I am the one who laughs.

Nine

I grew up next to the ocean. Until I was fifteen years old, I had no idea that some people could go an entire lifetime without ever seeing the sea.

And then, one night, I was forced to flee from it, ripped from its beauty forever.

I didn’t see a beach for six years. Landlocked and bitter, surrounded by dirt and storms and nightmares of Dornan Ross’s face.

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