Page 73

I arch beneath him, clawing at his back as he drives into me like he’s trying to bury himself deep enough to forget we were ever anything but this—heat and hunger and pain and I don’t want him to stop.
Every thrust is a desperate confession. Every gasp a sin.
I bite his shoulder. He groans like it’s the only language he speaks.
“You feel like fucking heaven,” he pants. “And I don’t deserve an ounce of it.”
“Then ruin me,” I whisper.
He does.
He fucks like a man possessed. Like he wants to tear me apart and put me back together. Like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground and he’s terrified I’ll disappear.
And when I fall apart—shaking, breathless, wrecked beneath him—he follows with a brutal groan, burying his face in my neck as he loses himself inside me.
For a moment, everything is still. Just sweat, breath, skin, and the truth we’ve been too afraid to say. Then his body softens over mine. His hand finds my hair again. Gentle this time. Reverent. Like I’m precious and he can’t bear the thought of breaking me.
And somehow, that’s the part that makes me want to cry.
The ceiling is crackedand crooked. I trace it with my eyes while his fingers play with strands of my hair, slow and absent, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
I’m sprawled across his chest, skin slick and heartbeat still racing too fast. His is steady, though. Infuriatingly steady.
“How long did you know?” I ask.
His hand pauses. “That it was you?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“A minute after I walked into that room. The way you looked at me… your eyes. I’d seen pictures and knew the Gattis had been looking for you.”
Silence folds between us. Not awkward. Justheavy.
“I thought I hated you,” I admit.
“You should,” he says softly. “I did things I can’t take back.”
“But you saved me too,” I whisper. “Just not the way I needed back then.”
He exhales. “I wanted to. I wanted to burn that place to theground. But I couldn’t do that without compromising all the other lost girls. My cover. Your safety.”
I lift my head to look at him. His eyes are soft now. Bare. Nothing undercover left in them. Just Saxon. Just the man I don’t know what to do with.
“I don’t want to be your regret,” I say.
“You’re not.”
“Then what am I?”
He reaches up. Brushes a knuckle along my cheek.
“The reason I still have a soul.”
I snort, half-laugh, half-sob. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Max,” he says, dead serious, “I’ve killed men for less than what was done to you. You think this is drama? This is restraint.”
My heart trips over itself.