Running from hell isnʼt easy. Especially when thereʼs someone dragging you back down into it.
Belligerent, brash and always in shades of black, Freya is hardly a lady. Hidden away by her father, sheʼs lived a normal life despite being born into the...
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I WAKE TO THE FEELING of someone stroking my hair. I’m on Torren’s lap, in the backseat of the Mustang, and I can feel the heat run through the slacks on his thighs into my cheek.
I turn, blinking up at him through the dim light of the garage. His dark hair falls over his forehead, his features impassive as he types on his phone with one hand. He’s clearly distracted, because he registers my movement a beat too late.
He glances down at me, his gaze washing over my face. My heartbeat quickens as he brushes a strand of hair away from my face with his big hand, his touch rough against my temple.
“No nightmare?” he asks, his voice low.
Surprised that he asked, I shake my head in a slow daze. How could I get a nightmare when he kept me up for most of the night?
Torren gives me a long look, like he can read my thoughts — like his mind is exactly where mine is. My stomach flutters. As he looks down at me, I can feel his breath mingling with mine, his scent engulfing me.
He draws his hand away from my hair, trailing his index finger down my forehead — along the bridge of my nose and then the Cupid’s bow of my lips, the flesh swollen and tingling. His other fingers play along my jaw as he tugs my bottom lip down with the rough pad of his thumb.
He gives me another long look, his eyes searching my face.
And then he leans down, pressing his lips to mine.
It’s tender. Raw. He threads his hand through my hair, cupping the crown of my head with his hand as he kisses me, pulling me closer to him.
I bare my throat to him, my body arching up against his as I respond to his touch. He trails his free hand down my throat, between my beasts and over my stomach before his fingers curl around the inside of my thigh possessively.
The kiss is slow, languid — yet every brush of his tongue against mine is charged with an electricity that threatens to consume me.
He takes and takes, not caring that I need to come up to breathe.
“Air,” I murmur a garbled demand into his mouth. “I need air.”
He scoffs. “You need me.”
It’s like he’s punishing me for keeping this from him for so long. Finally, he pulls away, and I gasp for breath, my lips fizzing.
His hand travels to the apex of my thighs as he dips it between my legs. There’s a spark of lust in his eyes that sends a shiver down my spine. “You’re wet,” he says.
I clamp down on my jaw and press my thighs together as memories of him entering me while kissing me invade my mind.
Light enters his eyes. “Greedy girl.”
I scowl at his derisive tone, but it’s true. I’m a little too addicted to him kissing me. Missionary might be my favorite, only because it means that he can kiss me while he’s inside me.
