Page 16 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

Her whole body is taut, unsure, but she doesn’t pull away.

Her face is inches from mine.

I can see the pulse in her neck, can taste the warmth of her breath.

“Tell me to stop,” I say, and mean it.

She shakes her head, just once.

I lean in, slowly, letting the tension build. Letting my intentions broadcast before sealing our fate. When our lips meet, it’s different than any other time.

Soft at first, barely a touch, then building as she leans into it.

She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, and I want to devour her.

Her hands come up, tangle in my hair, hold me there like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.

The kiss deepens—hungry, raw.

I open her mouth with mine, taste the heat of her tongue, the sweetness of her.

She melts into me, body going slack, then tense, then slack again.

I break away, just for a second, needing air. Her eyes are wide, lips parted, face flushed.

“Have you ever—” I start, but she shakes her head.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits, voice trembling.

“That’s okay,” I say. “I do.”

I kiss her again, harder this time, hands roaming up her back, down to the curve of her hip.

She arches into me, and I feel every inch of her, soft and yielding against the hardness of my body. I want her more than I’ve wanted anything in years.

But then I remember the blood on my hands, the mess I am, the monster I am… and it makes me think of Sienna.

All of the blood on my body makes me think of her .

I force myself to stop and pull back, breathing hard.

“Not like this,” I say, voice rough. “Not with blood on me.”

She blinks, confused. “I don’t care.”

“I do,” I tell her. “You deserve better than this.”

I can’t tell her that every time Sienna and I fucked, I almost always had blood on my hands.

She sits in my lap, hands still in my hair, eyes searching my face. For a long time, neither of us moves.

The desire between us is trying to destroy me from the inside out, crawling under my skin, but I hold it in check.

I lift her off my lap, stand, and pull her into my arms.

I hold her there, tight, as if I can squeeze all the fear and doubt out of her.

We stay like that for a long time.

Long enough for the blood on my hands to dry, and for the ache in my side to remind me that nothing good comes without a little pain.

I head straight into the shower, and no matter what I do, I can’t get the blood off.

No matter how many times I scrub, it clings in the lines of my palms, under the nails, at the base of the cut where the bullet grazed my ribs.

I stand in the shower, water blasting hot enough to raise steam, watching the pink swirl down the drain, and still it’s not enough.

I brace my hands on the tile, let the water beat down on my neck, and lean into the sting.

My breath bounces back at me, loud and animal. I scrub until my skin is raw, until the pain in my side flares with every movement.

Through the glass, I see Rosalynn’s reflection.

She’s watching, arms crossed, face unreadable. Her hair’s tied back.

She doesn’t look away, even as I turn to face her, water running down my chest.

“You can come in,” I say, voice echoing off the tile. “Or you can keep staring.”

She opens the door, steps inside, but doesn’t undress.

She stands there in the shirt and leggings, hair slicked from the humidity, eyes fixed on my hands.

“Why does it matter?” she asks. “My father never cared about blood. My brother thought it was a joke.”

“It matters to me,” I say.

“Why?”

I can’t explain it. Maybe because I know what it’s like to have your soul stained with things you can’t wash off.

Maybe because I want her to believe, for a second, that I’m not just a violent monster, but I am, and we both know it.

“Because you’re not meant for this,” I tell her. “You’re not meant for—” I can’t finish. I don’t know the word. I never learned it.

She steps closer.

The water mists her face, beads on her lips. She’s close enough now that I can see the fine lines around her eyes, the flecks of gold in her blue.

“Show me what I’m meant for,” she says, and there’s no hesitation.

She moves closer and stands with her back to the spray.

The shirt goes transparent, sticking to her skin, outlining every curve, every shadow.

The fabric clings to her chest, nipples peaked and dark beneath.

The leggings darken, contouring her thighs, the split at her hip where the fabric is thinnest.

I reach for her, sliding a hand up her side.

The fabric is cold, slippery, and I want to rip it off, but I don’t.

Instead, I pull her to me, press her body against mine, feeling the heat of her through the wet. I tilt her face up, thumb along her jaw, and kiss her.

The water makes everything taste like copper and rain.

Her lips are open, her tongue searching, desperate.

She makes a sound when I bite her lower lip, not a moan but a gasp. I slide my hand up her back, fist in her hair, and pull her head back so I can see her throat.

“You sure?” I whisper.

She nods, eyes wide.

I drag the shirt up, over her head, and toss it aside.

Her tits are perfect, and I take a moment to admire them, then cup them in both hands, thumbing the tips until she shivers.

I lower my head, tongue flicking, teeth grazing, and she arches into me.

The leggings are next.

I slide them down her hips, slow, savoring the way her skin pebbles under my touch.

She steps out of them, bare except for a strip of black lace. I hook a finger in the waistband and let it snap.

I want to tear it off, but I don’t. I want her to say the word, to give it to me.

Instead, I slide my hand between her legs, pressing against the wetness there. She whimpers, hips rocking forward, and I know she’s never done this before.

I ease a finger inside, slow, and watch her face as she adjusts.

She closes her eyes, mouth parted, hands gripping my arms like I’m the only thing holding her up.

I work her, slow and steady, adding another finger when she begs for it.

Her body is tight, trembling, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she chases the pleasure, grinding against my hand, breath coming faster, lips swollen and bitten.

“Good girl,” I tell her, and she shudders.

She’s close now. I can feel it in the way she clenches around me, in the desperate little noises she makes.

I keep going, not stopping even when her knees start to give.

I press my mouth to hers, swallowing her moans, and when she comes, it’s a shock—full-body, wracking, unstoppable.

She cries out, nails digging into my shoulders.

Her body pulses against my hand, wet and wild, and for a second, I want to lose myself in her.

But I don’t.

I pull her close, let her ride it out, hold her until the shivers stop.

Her face is flushed, hair plastered to her cheeks, eyes glazed with satisfaction.

I rest my chin on her head, breathing in the smell of her, innocence, come, and the faint metallic tang of blood still on my hands.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her eyes flicking up to meet mine before she looks away, a blush staining her cheeks.

I don’t answer. I just hold her there, letting the water rinse us both clean.

But when I close my eyes, all I see is red, swirling down the drain, and her face above it—open, honest, and completely unafraid.

It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.