Page 93 of House Rules

When he breaks the kiss, his back arches and his lips part in a silent moan as he comes for me, his release shooting across my breasts.

I keep stroking him through it, letting him ride out wave after wave of pleasure. I watch as the tension in his shoulders and arms seizes up… and then finally lets go. He sinks into a relaxed state I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him before.

When he opens his eyes, he looks drowsy. His thumb traces the curve of my breast, collecting a bit of his release and rubbing it into my nipple.

Without thinking, I grab his wrist, bring his thumb to my mouth, and lick it clean. He hooks that same thumb under my jaw, pulling my mouth back to his for a filthy, erotic kiss.

“That was for me,” he says, voice low, thick with something primal. “But next time? I’m not just going to touch you. I’m going to strip away everything anyone’s ever forced you to be. Every bruise, every mask, every inch of armor. I’ll carve the damage out with my hands and rebuild you from the ashes. In my image. As mine.”

He kisses me again before grabbing the loofah, still slick with soap, and scrubs me clean.

By the time we get out, the water’s gone icy. He pulls a gray robe from his closet—the fabric soft and thick, like summer storms—and wraps me in it. It’s the softest thing I’ve ever felt. He throws on a matching robe, then takes a deep breath.

“Are you ready to face the others?” he asks, brushing a wet lock of hair from my face.

“No,” I answer honestly. “But we have to.”

He gives me one more sweet kiss—interrupted by Con banging on the door.

“Fuck off! We’ll be out in a minute,” Storm yells.

“The cops are here. They want a statement.”

Fuck.

29

Phoenix

Storm opensthe door for Con, who shoots me a dirty look before turning to face him.

“Cops are here. I told them we never left the suite. Atticus already cleaned up anything that says otherwise, but they need your statement. Someone saw a girl in a trashy dress and a guy with blond hair following her.”

“You’re the one who picked out my wardrobe,” I mutter, but it falls on deaf ears. Neither of them is paying attention.

“My knife,” Storm says, eyes flicking toward the hallway. “I dropped it at some point. I don’t know where it is. If they findit?—”

“I have it.” I dart back into the bathroom.

I dig through the little dress I wore, checking the seams. Whoever designed it had the good sense to stitch in a hidden pocket around the neckline—probably meant for strippers to stash their tips, but it worked just fine for a blade.

I hand the knife to Storm. Con immediately rips it from my hand and shoves it into his pocket, glaring at me like I just confessed to treason. I don’t know what crawled up his ass, but he’s doing a great job of destroying the last shred of calm I managed to scrape together from that bath.

“What the fuck do you think you’re going to do with this?” he snaps. “Trying to pull something later?”

For a second, I think Storm might defend me again. But apparently, his spine only works when it’s not one of his own doing the damage.

“I grabbed it when I stood up,” I say, somehow managing to keep my voice steady. “Storm was upset. I knew he’d want it back.”

Con makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat and clenches his jaw until it clicks. Then hepushes past Storm, grabs me by the throat, and slams me against the wall.

My back hits the wall with a hard thud, and I choke on instinct. Not from pain. From rage. My hands curl into fists, but I don’t lift them. Not yet. Not with Storm watching and doing nothing.

“Don’t fucking worry about Storm,” he growls. “Go talk to the cops. You were up here. You saw nothing. You know nothing. And once they leave? You’re going to tell us the truth.”

Then he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room.

I exhale a shaky breath and glance at Storm. His mask is already back on—indifference carved into every line of his face.