Page 63 of Stolen Faith

He ran one hand down her cheek, touching the corner of her mouth.

She rolled, hating to lose the warmth of Brennon’s bare chest, but wanting to see and touch Rowan too.

Rowan’s broad back was to her, the fabric of his shirt pulled tight across his shoulders. Tight enough that she could see the definition in his muscles, and she traced the contours of his shoulders. His breath caught, and she felt powerful.

Izabel sat up, then turned, kneeling between them as she faced them. Brennon propped himself up on both elbows, gaze raking down her, while Rowan watched her almost warily. She didn’t want that expression on his face, so she reached out, cupping his cheek. Rowan closed his eyes and let the weight of his head fall into her palm.

“I’m tired of feeling scared,” she said softly. “Scared and helpless.”

Rowan’s eyes opened. “I won’t—”

Brennon put a hand on Rowan’s arm, stopping him. “What do you want to feel, Iza?”

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to think, because if she did, this strange, wonderful bubble, a bubble that isolated and protected her from the reality of their situation and the feelings that went along with it, would pop.

“I want to feel your hands on me,” she said simply. “I want to feel you, both of you, on me. In me.”

Brennon sat up but held back. Rowan watched her through narrowed eyes.

“I want to be fucked so good, so hard, that I forget everything else.” As she spoke, she reached for the buttons of Rowan’s shirt.

There were other things she wanted, things she wouldn’t say, because they’d pop the precious bubble. I want to feel you now, make love with you this instant, in case we don’t have another chance.

Tomorrows were never guaranteed, but theirs were particularly fragile.

Izabel shrugged out of Brennon’s shirt. Her loosened dress gaped, but that wasn’t enough. Rising to her feet, Izabel pulled the dress up and off, letting it fall in a heavy pile of red satin.

She wore bikini-cut panties and nothing else. This was nothing like how she’d imagined their first time—she was dirty and bruised. She needed a shower and a toothbrush and a razor.

None of that mattered.

Brennon came up onto his knees before her, his hands raised to touch her, but he stopped.

“Can I touch you?” The need in his voice was so raw and real, it made her ache for him.

But she held still, stayed silent. She wanted, needed, to make him wait. To control this moment, even if it was a control she had only because he allowed it.

“Yes,” she finally whispered.

Brennon grabbed her hips and pressed his lips to her abdomen, kissing his way down from her belly button.

Izabel let her head fall back, eyes closed.

“May I?” The low, rumbled words puffed against her ear, startling her. Izabel turned her head, and Rowan was there, his gaze fastened on her lips. Izabel licked them, watching him watch her.

“Yes.”

Rowan pressed against her back, his hands coming around from behind to cup her breasts. She moaned in pleasure as he held her. At least at first. She pressed up against him, and his thumbs swiped across her nipples.

“More,” she pleaded.

With a groan, Rowan buried his face against the side of her neck. Izabel tipped her head to the side, then closed her eyes. The sight of the concrete walls was coming dangerously close to breaking this spell, so she shut them out.

Brennon’s open mouth settled over her mound, his breath hot and wet even through the panties she still wore. He kissed her through the fabric.

“Let me,” he said softly against her. “Please.”

He said it like licking her pussy was his only wish, his only hope for salvation. She tried to respond, but Rowan gently grasped her nipples, rolling them between his fingers, and all she could do was moan.

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