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Just this perfect present.
His voice is low, guttural. “I want you. Want you like I’ve never wanted anything or anyone. You are my reason, Alexandra.”
“I need you. I want you,” I urge him. His movements become more urgent, and the tension coils within me again. “Fuck me harder, Dixon. I’m so close.”
“Oh, fuck yes, Alexandra. Yes.”
It’s overwhelming; I want it, need it, that sensation of being blasted to oblivion. I reach behind him, sink my nails into his back, and breathe into his ear. “If you care for me, you’ll fuck me like you hate me.”
“Whatever you say, princess.”
“I hate that fucking nickname.”
“The same way I hate you,” he growls. His thrusts deepen, and I rock my hips, moaning. Beautiful, perfect pain races through me. “You like that, princess?”
“Fuck you.” I buck my hips into him, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the bar.
I don’t just like it; I love it.
He matches his pace to mine as I chase that peak again, and this time, he’s right there with me; our shared climax approaches like a high-speed train — inevitable, unstoppable. And when it hits, everything goes white-hot as pleasure courses through me, the only sound piercing through the blissful void is the rasping, throaty moans of my man, the only sensation the burning ecstasy that roils my twitching body and the hot, wet pulses of his cock releasing inside me.
Breathless and intertwined, we collapse onto the cool wooden surface of the bar. The air is thick with the scent of sex and spilled liquor. I can feel the thrumming of Dixon's heart beneath his sweat-sheened chest, a rhythm that soothes the aftershocks still quivering through me.
As we lay there, I trace the lines of ink that snake across his arm. Yet, despite the raw intimacy of our entwined bodies, we're still skirting the truth of what we really are to each other.
He cares about me? I care about him? Empty bullshit phrases and I know it.
Even as the rest of me cools down, my cheeks burn with embarrassment over just how little that actually means. I care about many people in my life — my regular barista at the coffee shop, the butcher at the grocery store who always puts a few extra pieces of bacon in my order, the bouncer, Scott. Dixon is more than a bouncer to me, and he needs to fucking hear it as much as I need to fucking say it.
No more fucking around. No more dodging the truth.
I prop myself up on one elbow and look at him.
His eyes are heavy-lidded but hold back an ocean, ready to spill over — a confession on the tip of his tongue.
"Alexandra," he starts, his voice low and gravelly from exertion. "There's something I need to tell you…"
Suddenly, there’s an explosive banging on the door that seems far too sobering for our post-orgasmic haze. My blood turns to ice as adrenaline courses through my veins.
"Open up. We know you're in there. No more fucking around — it’s time."
It’s a deep voice, raspy, unfamiliar. I look at Dixon, and he’s already on his feet, anger carving deep furrows in his brow. It must be them. Another killer sent by whoever is responsible for my brother’s death.
He stalks to the door, fists clenched. “Get ready, Alexandra. I’ll handle this.”
I tense and look for a weapon. I’m about to be in a fight for my life. While naked and completely covered in sex.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Alexandra
I grab my panties and slip them on. I don’t mind fighting with my tits out — they might even be a good distraction, well, at least, I like to think they’re nice enough that they’d distract whoever’s trying to kill me, and I refuse to let negative thinking about myself into my head in my last moments — but there’s something off-putting about fighting without panties and with Dixon’s… stuff… dripping down my thigh.
I clean myself with a hand towel, then I reach behind the bar for a weapon and grab the knife I use to cut limes.
At least with the lime-knife, any cuts I land will fucking burn like hell.
It’s a small, but comforting, thought.
