Page 232 of Nyx

"Jesus," she whispers when she pulls my boxers down just enough so that my cock springs free. "How did I forget how big you are?"

I chuckle. "You say the nicest things about my cock, baby."

She looks up at me, teeth digging into her lower lip.

I expect her to say something else, but she simply keeps her eyes locked on mine as she lowers herself, tongue scraping over my bare abdomen.

She gives me a little grin before licking the underside of my cock. It jerks from the attention, and that makes her smile even wider, as if she's enjoying the power she has over me.

"May I?" she asks as she blinks up at me.

"It's all yours, Juliet."

She watches me as she lowers her mouth, tongue skating over the ridge of my head before sucking it into her mouth.

My vision blurs almost instantly, and I have to focus on not losing my balance.

Instinctively, my hand lashes out, but I stop it a few inches from her head. Force or aggression has no place between us, no matter how lost in the intimacy I could let myself get.

She shakes her head slightly, popping her mouth off my cock with an audible noise.

"I want that," she whispers. "Your fingers in my hair. Show me what you like."

"I like anything you want to do to me," I assure her, but I still lift my hand, placing it gently on her head, letting my finger get a little tangled in her hair.

She groans, and the vibration of her mouth on me makes me mimic the noise.

All too soon, my balls tighten, and it makes me tighten my grip on her hair.

Her mouth turns into the prettiest pout when I pull my hips so far back that her seeking mouth can't find me again.

"I was enjoying that," she says.

"I was too. A little too much. Stand up," I say, my words a whispered plea.

The second she's in front of me, I lift her shirt over her head, before reaching behind her and working to unsnap her bra.

The fabric falls away, her nipple immediately hardening in the cool air. The color is a perfect match to her lips, causing me to struggle with where I want to put my mouth on her first.

"You are fucking everything, baby," I say as I take a step back and let my eyes wander over her from top to bottom.

Her bottom lip curls in as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, as if suddenly shy.

"Those shorts have to go," I say, but she's working on opening the button and lowering the zipper before I can even close the distance between us.

In the next breath, she unceremoniously shoves them, along with her panties, down, kicking the fabric away right after slipping her feet out of her sandals.

I don't focus on the bandage on her neck or the scars on her shoulder and stomach. They're part of her story but hold no weight between the two of us right now.

There are no thoughts of vengeance, no wishes for revenge, because her monster is gone.

I freeze with the thought.

Her monster is gone.

I'm not her monster.

Graham Whitmore was always her monster.