Page 91 of State of Ruin

The doors open, and he’s waiting for me. He pounces before I’m even out of the elevator, but he doesn’t have to do much work because I jump right on him. With a shriek, I wrap my legs and arms around him as he clamps a big hand under my ass and walks me through to his main living area. The last time I was here, I was oblivious to all these layers of deception between us, but now we’re equals. Now everything is peeled away.

Figuratively.

And literally, if you give us about thirty seconds.

His mouth is on mine, his tongue seeking access—which I give, obviously. I’m not a moron. He was so sweet and tentative last night, but we’ve been texting all day and I think he’s truly starting to accept that I’m not going anywhere, that this is happening. I hope I’m right, because tonight I want the full Alpha Sinclair experience.

He sets me on the kitchen island, and I instantly get to work unbuttoning his shirt while keeping our lips locked and my legs wrapped around him. This guy’s not going anywhere. He unzips my jeans, banding his arm around me for a moment so he can lift my ass off the work surface and get them down before he tugs off my shoes and socks—and the jeans. He straightens up, standing between my legs and grinning triumphantly as he makes short work of the snaps on my favorite black bodysuit.

“You didn’t think those were going to stop me, did you?” he teases, leaning in for a slow, dirty kiss as his knuckles glide down my inner thighs in a way that makes me shiver.

I shake my head as best I can. “Not for a minute.”

“Fuck,” he groans, lifting me off the island like he can’t decide what to do with me. He puts me down and sinks to the floor, laying himself down right there on the concrete. “Come here, sweetheart. Come and sit on my fucking face.” He slaps the floor.

I bark out a surprised laugh as I tug my bodysuit off, conscious of his filthy gaze raking all over me. “Is this my Christmas present?”

“No, it’s mine. Bra and panties off, like a good girl. You know what to do.”

Yes, I do. Clearly, neither of us is in the mood to mess around. I lose my black lace bra and thong and straddle him. He still has a couple of shirt buttons fastened, so I get them loose and push his shirt open. Smooth, tan skin greets me. Dark hair. And a something-pack. Six? Eight? Somebody has been crunching their way through their self-imposed exile at Fairwater. “There he is,” I say, lowering myself down on his crotch. Oh, fuck. He’s hard through his jeans, and that denim feels seriously good against my naked pussy. I allow myself a little shimmy, and⁠—

“Elyse, get the fuck up here, now or I will actually die,” he orders me, glaring at me like a man whose self-control has been stretched to its absolute limits. I laugh and shimmy up his body on my knees instead, enjoying the way he’s eye-fucking every inch of me. He hooks his hands around the backs of my thighs as I clamber gracelessly over his arms. Our eyes lock. His are glazed with desire, pupils blown out, leaving only a thin band of blue. His lips are swollen already. He gives me a bossy nod, like You know what to do. And then he moves his hands to my waist, grips hard, and shunts me down onto his mouth.

The beard. Oh my fucking God, the beard. Instantly, it’s different from before: somewhere between ticklish and scratchy, but in a seriously good way. Texture, that’s what it is. Friction. Oh, holy hell, the friction level is off the charts. That’s not necessarily a good thing, because I haven’t had an orgasm at Sinclair’s hands for, ooh, six or seven weeks. So even his lips and tongue would probably be too much for me. But with this… facial playground, I guess, going on, I won’t last five seconds.

“Oh, God,” I moan, unable to take my eyes off the vision below me: Sinclair laying there, eyes blazing, jaw muscles working as, out of sight, his mouth and that beard do absolutely lethal things to my clit. I will take this memory to my deathbed, that’s for sure.

He releases his grip on my hips and slides one hand down between my ass cheeks until a couple of fingers find my entrance, while he uses the other to trace a line northward to my breast so he can roll and pinch my nipple. I moan again and grind my pussy down on him like a shameless ho who may just fuck her boyfriend’s mouth so badly that she squishes his skull against pure concrete. But I’m losing my mind here. The sensation of having Sinclair touch and lick and suck on me like this, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get enough of how I feel and taste, is melting my brain. All I care about is coming, as hard and as soon as possible. He’s turning me into an animal, and boy, am I here for it.

It’s the beard that finishes me off, the rough rasp of it against my hypersensitized flesh in addition to all the magical, filthy things he’s doing with his tongue. I bear down and I milk the poor guy for all he’s worth, rubbing against him until my soul leaves my body and I explode, bucking over and over as he coaxes every last drop of my orgasm from me.

As soon as it’s ebbed away, I’m slithering down his body so I can kiss him. The kiss is feverish, filled at my end with the need to show him what that meant to me and at his end, I assume, with the very urgent need to blow his load. I hope he plans to make love to me all night long, but clearly we both have a lot of edge to take off before we can take our sweet time.

I scramble to my knees as I attempt to get his jeans off, but he jumps to his feet.

“I need you inside me,” I demand in a breathy voice I barely recognize as my own.

“Right there with you, sweetheart.” His laugh is pained as he shoves down his jeans and boxer briefs, jumping around a little to get rid of them.

I tug his button-down off his arms and meet his eyes, even though his naked body and rock-hard dick have been the stuff of my relentless, unwilling fantasies for the past month and a half. Jeez, that thing is so enormous that I’m wondering if he put himself on a jerking-off ban on top of everything else.

“I want you bare,” I tell him. God, I want it so bad. I want to be stuffed full of Sinclair’s dick with nothing at all in between us.

His expression goes absolutely feral as he turns me by the shoulders and marches me over to the couch, with me leading the way. “Yeah?” We stop in front of it, and he pushes me gently forward until I’m bent over the back of it.

Oh, I get it. He needs it as hard and fast as he just gave it to me.

Time to goad him into action.

“Yeah.” I wiggle my butt for good measure. I can’t fucking wait to feel him notch his crown against me. How far we’ve come from the pillory.

A step forward has him doing exactly that as the hairs on his thighs brush against the backs of my legs. He leans over, and I feel the heat of him. “Trying to knock me up?”

He pushes in half an inch, and it’s so perfect that I can’t bear it. “Maybe you’ll try to knock me up,” I retort halfheartedly. “Hijack my career again before it’s even gotten started.”

For a second, he freezes. Oh, shit. It’s way too soon for that kind of joke, even if I shared the details of my Bellamy meeting with him last night. But then, an evil laugh escapes him, his hand flexing on my waist. “Fuck me, why didn’t I think of that?” He shunts in an inch. I’m going to die. I’m going to die of pleasure overload. “That’s a truly excellent idea, sweetheart,” he whispers in my ear. “And you should know that if I knocked you up, all I’d be doing is bringing my nefarious plans for you forward by a couple years, so it’s no big deal to me.”

Now it’s my turn to freeze. He’s got me.