Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
TWENTY-TWO
Two months later, two days before Christmas
MOIRA
Marci’s in one of her delightful moods again. Lucinda’s still out, which means janitorial duty at the shelter is all mine.
Marci practically vibrated with joy when she handed me the mop and informed me about the catastrophic backup in stall three. If she’d been any giddier, she might’ve clicked her heels.
But Marci’s petty little victories can’t touch me today. Not when I’m still floating somewhere above the clouds, carried by the aftershocks of my morning with Bane.
Things have been different since I got back from what everyone at Carnal now calls—without a hint of irony—the Red Wedding.
Isaak was in a bad situation, so we all banded together to get him out of it. Well, mostly, he did all the badassery, but we got him out of jail so he could go do his white knight shit.
It felt good.
I felt good.
And it felt even better that when Quinn called about Isaak, Bane didn’t turn all caveman on me. He let me go, and he didn’t try to control the situation or insert himself into it like some overprotective asshole marking his territory.
Yeah, we like to fight—but only during sex.
I’ve never had anything like this before. I mean, obviously. I’ve never had anything with anybody before.
But this morning, I woke up and just watched Bane sleep. Felt the warmth of his solid, muscled torso pressed against me, his heavy man-arm slung over my waist like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.
His face was turned slightly away, dark lashes casting delicate shadows on his sharp cheekbones. He looked almost… serene. Almost.
Because even in sleep, his mouth was tight, and a furrow was etched deep between his brows.
Like he was wrestling demons only he could see.
Not that he’ll tell me about them.
I frown as I push the wheeled mop and bucket toward the bathroom.
We have to sleep at my apartment now. Not by choice but by decree, courtesy of his bishop, who laid down the holy law after that little meeting of theirs. No sleepovers at the church-owned house.
Bane, ever the stickler for his twisted brand of honor, took it as gospel. No exceptions. No bending the rules. Not even for me.
But he’s still in my bed every night but Saturday.
Like he can’t help himself.
Like I’m gravity, and he’s cursed to fall. But not cursed enough to break all the rules. Not cursed enough to let me in all the way.
He knows everything about me but still won’t tell me shit about his past beyond the maddeningly vague I wasn’t always a priest.
He hates lies but apparently doesn’t feel the same way about secrets. Because he’s a locked box.
Always in control. Except for those rare, feral moments when he fucks me like a man possessed.
I want to know what’s really going on in that infuriating, brilliant head of his.
While he slept this morning, I mouthed words too dangerous to ever say aloud against his hair. Words I barely let my lips form: Tell me you never want me to leave.
Because what if he doesn’t?
But worse—what if he does?
We’re not strangers anymore. But we’re not just lovers either. We’re something tangled and raw and dangerous.
Every night he crosses town to be with me, defying his own goddamn boundaries. At first, I thought this was temporary. Some fleeting indulgence on his part. But he keeps coming back, night after night, like a tide pulled by a moon neither of us is willing to acknowledge.
The more he stays, the deeper I sink.
And the more terrifying it becomes to imagine the night he doesn’t come back. When I wake up to cold sheets and nothing but a ghost where his warmth used to be.
Why did I let him in so deep in the first place?
There was probably a reason I never had relationships before. Yeah, I’m a fucking chaotic disaster. But also, this shit is terrifying.
I push into the shelter’s bathroom with my mop bucket and lean against the closed door. My palm presses flat against my chest, feeling the frantic drum of my heart.
I want him.
I want this.
But wanting is so goddamn dangerous.
Wanting means I have something to lose.
It’s just so fucking sweet right now. No, sweet isn’t the right word.
This thing between us is sharper, like dark chocolate with sea salt.
And just as fucking addictive.
Just before I left to volunteer, Bane didn’t say a word. He just guided me to sit on the edge of the bed, his palms warm against my thighs as he parted them and his gaze dark and unreadable as ever.
Then he kneeled between them like I was something sacred, something he needed to worship, and proceeded to devour me. His mouth was slow. Relentless. Devastating.
Half an hour.
That’s how long he kept me there, trembling and unraveling, his mouth merciless while my fingers clutched and pulled desperately at his hair.