Page 24 of Brutal Reign

Lukas is right behind me, his body warm, his breath curling against my neck as I struggle. “Let me help you.”

Without waiting for a response, he takes the key from me and expertly unlocks the door, his hands much steadier than mine. “Quite the security system,” he notes, eyeing the Ring camera.

I shrug. “Rough neighborhood. Can’t be too careful.”

The door swings open, and a small shiver of doubt flutters in my chest. Here is this successful, well-dressed man stepping into my cramped space, with its thrift-store furniture and clothes drying by the heater. But beyond the embarrassment, there is the voice that’s haunted me for a year, whispering not to trust anyone, to keep my guard up.

Fuck it. I’m done listening to that voice. Right now, I’m listening to the part of me that wants to feel alive, to feel desired.

I don’t give him a chance to look around or get comfortable. Instead, I grab the collar of his coat and tug him inside. He lets me; maybe he’s amused at how eager I am, but I don’t care. As soon as the door clicks shut, I push him back against it and reach up on my tippy toes to kiss him.

He groans, deep and hungry, his big hands easily spanning my waist. In a blur, he flips us, and now I’m pressed flat against the door, his body boxing me in, radiating heat.

I shiver. His mouth comes down on mine again, greedy and hot, devouring me like he can’t get enough.

My hands slip beneath his coat, gliding over the hard muscle of his chest. God, he must have a serious exercise routine. He could break me in two if he wanted, and that thought only makes me shiver harder.

Breathless, I break the kiss and pull back enough to look up at him.

“I need to see you,” I whisper. “All of you.”

His eyes darken, and he looks at me like I’m something delicious he wants to consume. I certainly hope he does.

“Sit,” he orders, voice rough as gravel.

He steers me back until my knees bump the couch, and I settle in place.

He shrugs off his coat, then peels his sweater over his head. When he lifts his T-shirt, he makes me watch. He’s built like an athlete. Every line of muscle is sharply defined, with deep ridges leading to the waistband of his jeans.

But it’s the scars that make me freeze. They’re everywhere on him. Some are clean and fine, some jagged and brutal, layered over powerful shoulders and down his sides. Black ink winds over his torso: a snarling beast drawn beneath his heart, a dagger on his bicep, and a constellation of small, dark stars scattered along his ribs.

Nerves prickle beneath my skin. This isn’t a writer’s body. These are scars of violence and survival.

I swallow hard. Who am I inviting into my bed?

When he sees me studying them, a flicker of vulnerability crosses his face. “I lived a rough life,” he says quietly. “After my parents died, there weren’t many choices. For a long time, I did what I had to do to survive.”

My chest tightens with something tender. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. He doesn’t need to tell me more. If anyone knows what survival is like, it’s me. But he’s changed his life around. And maybe I’ll be able to do that too one day.

My thighs press together instinctively as he kicks off his boots and unbuttons his jeans, lowering them with a little show. My heart thuds in my chest, nerves and excitement tangling together like a potent cocktail.

“Touch yourself,” he demands.

My breath catches. “What?”

His gaze darkens, the corner of his mouth lifting with a wicked promise. “While I undress. I want to see what I do to you.”

I hesitate, uncertain how to play this game, but the hunger in his eyes makes it impossible to say no. My hands drift to the hem of my skirt. I part my thighs, tracing over the front of my panties. I’m already so wet for him. My head tips back as I feel the friction, the ache building inside me. I moan softly, more turned on than I’ve ever felt.

When he slides his briefs down his legs, the air leaves my lungs in a rush.

He’s massive, and I mean inevery way. The hard lines of his chest, the sculpted muscles of his thighs, and his cock, thick and heavy, curving up toward his stomach.

He wraps his palm around his shaft, stroking slowly, and a flutter of apprehension mixes with arousal. This is so far outside my comfort zone, but I love how wild and free it makes me feel.

“How the hell am I going to make that fit?” The words spill out before I can stop them.

A sinful grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “First, I’m going to eat your pussy, take my time, and really savor you, stretching you with my fingers. Only once you’ve come hard on my face and I’ve licked up every last drop,” his voice is thick with desire, “am I going to work my way inside your pussy, slowly, carefully stretching you. And once you’re nice and loose for me, I’m going to fuck the hell out of you.”