Page 12 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

11:30 PM. Grace would be home by now. Possibly studying. Possibly playing piano. Eventually sleeping.

Waiting for me, though she didn't know it yet.

I finished my whiskey and changed into dark clothing. Black pants, black sweater, black leather gloves. Nothing that would stand out, nothing that would be remembered.

The drive to her apartment took twenty-three minutes. I parked two blocks away and approached on foot, staying in the shadows, avoiding the streetlights. The security in her building was laughable—a single lock on the main door, easily picked, and no cameras in the hallways.

She lived on the third floor, apartment 3B. I'd been inside twice before while she was at class, learning the layout, studying her possessions, breathing in the scent of her that lingered in the air. But I'd never been there while she was home. Never crossed that particular threshold.

Until tonight.

The lock on her door took less than thirty seconds to pick. I slipped inside, closing it silently behind me, standing motionless in the darkness as my eyes adjusted.

Her apartment was quiet except for the soft sound of breathing coming from the bedroom. No lights were on, but the glow of the city filtered through the windows, casting everything in a soft, blue-tinged darkness.

I moved silently through the space, avoiding the floorboards I knew would creak, making my way to her bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar.

She was asleep.

Grace lay on her back, one arm thrown above her head, the other resting over her stomach, fingers curled loosely. The sheet had ridden up just enough to expose a sliver of bare skin above the waistband of her shorts, soft, pale, and untouched.

Her thighs were slightly parted, one leg bent, the other extended towards the edge of the mattress.

The position was almost obscene in its innocence.

Her blonde hair spread around her like sunlight on white linen, lips parted in a soft exhale, lashes unmoving.

She looked younger in sleep. Softer. Unarmed.

The contrast clawed at me.

She fought me when she was awake; sharp eyes, sharper mouth.

But here, like this…she was delicate. Breakable.

Her tank top clung to her breasts, sheer enough to make out the faint shadow of her nipples, the gentle rise and fall of her chest with every breast. Her body shifted slightly, and one nipple slipped free.

Just barely…enough to sow the soft pink of her areola, already tightening in the room’s cool air.

My gaze dragged lower.

Her shorts had also shifted, high and crooked. One edge curved up between her thighs, revealing the bare slit of her pussy, lips plush and glistening faintly even in sleep. A quiet kind of wet—arousal her mind hadn’t caught up to yet. But her body had.

Mine.

The word burned in my chest.

I moved closer. Careful. Not out of guilt, just out of reverence.

I let my fingers trail over the edge of the sheet, then up along the inside of her thigh. Her skin was smooth and warm, the muscle beneath it relaxed, trusting. She didn’t stir…but her breath caught.

Then:

”Rafe…”

A whisper. A moan. My name, unguarded.

My cock throbbed hard behind my zipper. I curled my hand into the mattress just to keep still, to keep control. I didn’t want to scare her. Didn’t want to wake her…not yet.

I reached out again, slower this time. My knuckles brush the head of her tank top rising with the curve of her ribs. I slid my hand up over her stomach, the skin there, softer, warmer. Then higher.

Her brass fit perfectly into my palm—bare now, the tank top bunched under my wrist. Her nipple was already tight, puckered, begging. I rolled it between my fingers, slow and firm, watching her body respond.

She sighed, hips shifting. Her thighs clenched, just barely. I pinched again, harder, and her back arched.

God, she was beautiful.

My hand trailed back down, slow, greedy, until I reached her thighs. I settled between them, brushing her folds with the backs of my fingers. She gasped.

Still asleep.

I rubbed circles over her clit, gentle but insistent, and her hips jerked. Her breath turned into panting. Her legs spread wider, like her body was offering itself up, desperate to be touched.

She wa so fucking wet. Slippery and hot and soft under my fingers. I wanted to bury my mouth between her legs. I wanted to hear her cry out with her eyes wide open.

But not yet…

I fucked her with my fingers—slow, deep thrusts—while my thumb stayed pressed to her clit. Her body trembled. Her breath hitched.

Another moan.

“Ohh…Rafe…”

She came fast.

Her legs locked around a pillow, her hips grinding into my hand, her cunt fluttering around my fingers as the orgasm tore through her. Raw. Helpless. Real.

I pulled away slowly, watching her body twitch, watching her breath settle, watching her mouth part like she’d just been kissed.

I stood there hard and aching, with the scent of her on my fingers and a storm raging in my chest.

She didn’t wake. But she would remember.

Maybe not with her mind.

But her body would.

And next time…she’d beg for it awake.