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"Dixon, I’m going to let you come, and I even want you to come inside me, but not in my mouth,” I say. “Because I want you to take a deep breath, maybe a few, calm your cock down, and then lie back. I want to ride you, and I want to look down on your smug, smirking, so-fucking-handsome face and see the look in your eyes as you fill my pussy with your come.”
“Oh, goddamn,” he says.
Without hesitation, he’s on his back faster than I can roll over. Moments later, I’m astride him, my hands bracing myself on his powerful chest, his cock throbbing with temptation at the entrance to my wet pussy, and my eyes locked onto his. Gently, I reach between my legs and guide him into me as I lower myself on his thick cock.
I groan at the feeling of him filling me up so perfectly — the stretch, the fullness, the heat.
His hands come up to grab my hips, holding me still as I impale myself on his cock.
It’s not gentle this time; there’s something primal about it, something demanding.
His hands slip up my sides, tracing the curves of my body until they reach my breasts. He cups them, squeezes them, and I arch my back into his touch, unable to resist the sensation. His thumbs tease my nipples as he thrusts up into me, matching my rhythm with an intensity that takes my breath away.
I can feel it building again, that wave of pleasure that threatens to crash and break me. I let go, give myself over to burning ecstasy, his every thrust driving me higher and higher. Our breaths are ragged, our moans and groans fill the room as we lose ourselves in each other.
I look down at him, his eyes locked onto mine. There’s no more smirking asshole — he’s just a man, vulnerable, broken, and alive beneath me. In this moment, I know I want him so deeply that speaking it aloud would scare us both.
We’re both broken, but we’ve found each other.
Then the climax hits like a bolt of lightning.
I reach down, dig my nails into his chest, my back arched as I scream his name and lose my senses thanks to his thick cock.
A split-second later, I feel him lose himself, too.
A pulsing heat fills me deep with his thick come. My name parts his lips. And when I slide off of him and lower myself into the crook of his waiting arm, there’s a smile there, too. Barely visible, but definitely not cocky. No, it’s different — a smile I’ve never seen on his lips before. Warm and deep.
“This changes things,” I say. It feels foolish to say something so obvious, but necessary, too; there’s a part of me that worries that if I don’t acknowledge this moment, it’ll disappear. I’m too familiar with sudden loss not to do my damnedest to cling onto something that maybe, just maybe, could be worth it.
“It doesn’t have to,” Dixon says. His voice is quiet, and it’s clear he knows this changes things between us, too, but he wants to give me an out. In case I don’t want to face the tough questions, like: what is Dixon to me if not the man I want to murder? Who am I to him if not the woman who tried to kill him?
What are we to each other?
But I don’t want an out.
Instead, I answer him with a smile and a kiss.
“It does. And I think I like it that way.”
Chapter Twenty
Dixon
Hours pass in bed, sometimes holding each other, sometimes sleeping, sometimes — much of the time — fucking. Through it all, questions hang between us.
What’s changed? Have I changed?
I don’t know if I’m ready to accept that I have, or that I will.
But I know that, in no uncertain terms, I want the truth about Lucas Reyes.
I want to know if someone set up that meeting between my old MC and the Crimson Fury to fail the way it did. I want to kill them in the slowest, most painful way possible.
Sometime during our stretch of kissing, fucking, and sleeping, I’m woken by Alexandra returning to her bedroom with wet hair and a towel wrapped around her body.
From the living room, the sound of one of her podcasts is playing. Some host is jabbering away in a serious voice. “When Maria purchased that ax from the hardware store, she put herself on a statistically designated path: the path to becoming a killer. The numbers inarguably show that 100% of people who buy axes eventually end up using them to commit murder. In fact, it is so ironclad that, among statisticians and morticians alike, it is known as Bunyan's Law. But what about those people who own axes and aren't murderers, you ask? Well, they received them either from a friend or a family member who likely was, or is, an ax murderer.”
“What are you listening to?” I say.
