Page 61 of Sadistic

I've imagined this a thousand different ways, but never like this—her in control, me following her lead.

Each button she undoes feels like unwrapping a gift I'm not sure I deserve.

"Scars," she observes, tracing a bullet wound on my ribs. "This one's new."

"Six months ago. Territory dispute with the Colombians."

Her fingers find another across my shoulder, the skin still pink and angry. "This?"

"Knife. Three years ago. Someone thought they could take me in a pub fight." I catch her hand before she can catalog more damage. "Do you want the history of every mark?"

"I want to know what I'm getting into."

"Violence," I say simply. "This is what you're getting. A man who's killed for you, who'll kill again if necessary. Who has more enemies than friends and more scars than birthdays."

"I know." She pulls me toward the bedroom. "I'm choosing it anyway."

My bedroom is more of the same—dark colors, expensive everything, no personal touches.

The bed is massive, designed for someone my size, with sheets that cost more than most people's rent.

She looks small in the space, but not overwhelmed. Never overwhelmed.

"Last chance," I offer as she sits on the edge of the bed.

"If you ask me that one more time, I'm leaving." She reaches for me. "I know what I want, Doran. Question is, do you?"

I answer by kissing her again, deeper this time, letting her feel exactly how much I want this.

Want her.

My hands tangle in her dark hair, messing up the style from earlier.

She makes a sound in the back of her throat that shoots straight through me.

"Five years," I murmur against her mouth. "Five years of wanting this."

"Then stop talking and show me."

I lay her back on the bed, taking my time even with every instinct screaming at me to rush.

This might be our only night—she might wake up tomorrow and retreat behind her walls again.

I need to memorize every second.

Her skin is soft under my hands, warm and flushed from the alcohol and arousal.

I map every inch with fingers and lips, learning the sounds she makes when I find sensitive spots.

The curve where her neck meets her shoulder makes her gasp.

The inside of her wrist makes her shiver.

The spot just below her ear makes her arch against me.

"You're studying me," she accuses, breathless.

"Always." I move lower, tasting whiskey and perfume on her skin. "But this is different from how I normally do it."