Page 114 of His Trick

I see you, Sunshine.

“You don’t what?” I pressed, my thumb dragging across his cheek. “Don’t want me? Don’t think about me when you’re fucking her? Don’t lie to me, Shiloh. Not out here in oursanctuary. Not when I’ve watched you moan my fucking name when she can’t see.”

He tried to shake his head, but my grip held him steady and unmoving. His breath caught, his chest rising and falling like he had just run a marathon, but we both knew all he’d done was stand there and drown in his own pity.

“You’re drunk, Sunshine. You’ve tried your best to fade away,” I murmured. My thumb slid to his mouth, tracing the tremor of his lips. “But that doesn’t change the truth, does it?”

His eyes fluttered shut again. “This isn’t real. You aren’t real. Carrington left me.”

I laughed low in my throat. “Technically, you left me in another fucking state, but is that what you tell yourself when you wake up sweating and fucking hard for me? That it isn’t real. That’s just your dreams. Just ghosts of the past. But I’m real, Shiloh. I’ve always been real. And I’m standing right here in front of your pathetic, whiskey-smelling ass.”

His hands twitched uselessly at his sides, like he didn’t know whether to push me away or reach out to touch me.

I didn’t give him the chance to choose.

I slammed him back against the tree, the impact muffled by bark and rain. His gasp ripped through the storm as my hand tangled in his soaked blond hair, yanking his head back so his throat was exposed for me. My mouth hovered there, my teeth grazing over the broken skin, tasting the rain, blood, and whiskey, feeling the heat pulse beneath my lips.

He moaned, a broken noise between a protest and a plea not to stop. God, it nearly undid me. Hearing his moans again. Feeling his resistance crack like ice.

“You hate me,” I whispered against his throat. “But you need me more. Isn’t that right, Sunshine? You need me to break you…you need my darkness.”

“Carrington—” his voice cracked on another moan, and his dick pressed into me.

I pulled back just enough to see his face, his eyes wild and unfocused, glassy from the alcohol. My chest ached at the sight of him. He was so far gone, and I should’ve stepped the fuck away. I should’ve left him to wallow in his fucking misery.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

He needed me. And I needed him.

I pressed my mouth harder to his, rough and claiming, dragging a groan from somewhere deep in him. He tasted like the whiskey and rain, bitter, sweet, and everything I’d craved every day of missing him. He didn’t kiss me back at first, too drunk and lost, but he didn’t stop me either. His hands fisted weakly in my shirt, holding on like I was the only thing keeping him from falling.

He had no idea I was the one about to collapse.

The kiss broke with a sharp pull of breath. His lips were so swollen, his eyes still glassy. He swayed against me, his forehead knocking into mine like he couldn’t hold himself steady any longer.

“You don’t want me,” he whispered, weak and almost childlike.

I laughed low and cruelly because if I didn’t laugh, I’d break down. “Don’t tell me what I fucking want. I need this. I need you. I want you to want me too.”

My hand slid down his chest, feeling the way his body shook, the way his hips jutted forward despite his persistent denial.

His fingers flexed at my sides, useless and resistive. “I’m drunk,” he muttered. “You aren’t real.”

“I know.” My lips dragged across his jaw, tasting the rain on him, soft and cold, and then the warmth beneath it, a quiet burn that I ached to devour.“Makes it easier for you to pretend,doesn’t it? Tomorrow, you can say it wasn’t real. That Carrington was just another nightmare you couldn’t shake.”

I bit down on his neck, not gentle this time, claiming him in a way Xanthy never could. He gasped, his head falling back against the tree.

“Tonight, I’ll show you how fucking real I am.”

Tugging my shirt over my head, I pressed my body flush against his, pinning him to the bark, and letting him feel every ounce of me against him. His breath stuttered, catching in his throat, and a sweet sound of surrender slipped out of him, no matter how he tried to swallow it.

“You’re mine, Shiloh Anderson,” I breathed against his ear, gyrating against him, pulling his shirt off his soaked body. “Even if it’s only here. Even if I have to be your fucking dirty secret. You’ll always be mine.”

He whimpered, shaking his head, but his hips betrayed him, grinding forward, searching for friction.

For me.