Page 74 of Shadow Waltz
He cupped my jaw, forcing my gaze to his, eyes dark with warning and want. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you’re not just using me, Ash.”
I held his stare, fierce and open. “I want to remember how it feels to be wanted for who I am—not what I can do. Just you. Just now.”
His hands slid under my shirt, the heat of his palms rough against my skin, and then he was kissing down my throat, biting at the place where my collar met flesh. I arched into him, shameless and hungry, my breath coming fast as he pushed my knees apart and wedged himself between them.
He hesitated one last time, voice low against my ear. “Last chance. If you want to stop?—”
“Don’t stop,” I gasped, yanking his shirt open, scattering buttons across the floor. “Don’t you dare.”
Something primal broke loose in him then—he hauled me closer, mouth trailing fire across my skin, hands everywhere, desperate and searching. My hands fumbled at his belt, needing him, needing this, all the while glancing at the laptop, watching the numbers crawl toward completion.
He found my mouth again, kissing me deep and filthy, one hand tangling in my hair while the other palmed my ass, pulling me against him so hard it was almost bruising. I moaned into him, every nerve lit up, the taste of him hot and sweet and utterly addictive.
“Christ, Ash,” he muttered, voice strained, “You’re going to ruin me.”
I grinned against his mouth, hips rolling in a steady rhythm that had us both shaking. “Let me.”
He pressed me back onto the table, papers scattering, the edge digging into my spine as his mouth claimed every inch of exposed skin. I wrapped my legs around his waist, grinding up into the heat and friction, clinging to him like I might fall apart if I let go.
He was rougher now, all restraint burned away—hands sliding beneath my jeans, fingers working me open withpracticed skill. I let myself surrender to him, knowing that here, in this moment, there was no agenda but want, no motive but hunger.
The flash drive beeped softly as the download finished. I slipped my hand behind me, palming it with a flicker of victory, never breaking the kiss.
He pulled back, chest heaving, eyes wild. “You sure you want this?”
I grabbed his hand, guiding him where I needed him most. “I’ve never been more sure.”
Reddick’s jaw clenched, a battle waging in his dark eyes—a struggle between discipline and the raw, aching want I’d always felt simmering beneath his surface. For a split second, he almost resisted, and I let my thumb stroke across the back of his hand, soft and coaxing.
“Don’t overthink it,” I whispered, brushing my lips against his knuckles. “Just let go. Just tonight.”
That did it. He exhaled, harsh and wanting, and with that, his hands were everywhere—rough, skilled, reclaiming every inch of skin my shirt revealed. In one smooth motion, he pulled me in, mouth hot at my neck, teeth scraping just hard enough to sting. I shivered, letting my head fall back, my hands twisting in his hair—silver at the temples, thick and soft and stubborn, a contrast to the brutal grip he had on my body.
“You know what you’re doing,” he breathed, voice gone gravelly as his hands moved down, tugging my shirt up and off in a single, practiced motion. I let him see the scars, the muscle, the evidence of all the years lost and won. He kissed a particularly ugly scar on my ribs, slow and reverent, his lips lingering there longer than necessary.
“I always know what I’m doing,” I murmured, palming his belt, undoing it with a flick and guiding his hand lower, over the bulge straining against my jeans.
He smirked, but there was something dangerous in it—something sharp. “Smartass.” Then, rougher, “On your knees.”
The command was low, firm, and I felt it in my spine, a shiver that was half challenge, half surrender. I knelt for him, mouth already watering, eyes never leaving his as he shucked his shirt with brisk efficiency. His body was better than I remembered—broad chest dusted with salt-and-pepper hair, taut stomach, shoulders thick with muscle that years of chasing down monsters and running the city had built. Silver fox, I thought, and hated how much the sight made my pulse race.
He toed off his shoes and dropped his pants, not bothering with anything slow. His cock was already hard, thick and flushed and leaking. I licked my lips, taking him in, enjoying the way his breath caught as I stroked him once, twice, with practiced, lazy confidence.
“Fuck, Ash,” he muttered, voice ragged. “You look so fucking good like this.”
I grinned, letting my tongue flick over the head, tasting him, teasing. “You’re not so bad yourself, old man.”
He growled, one hand fisting in my hair, guiding me with gentle pressure but never forcing, always giving me the control. “You’re trouble.”
“Yeah,” I said, sinking down, lips sliding over him inch by inch, swallowing him deep, hollowing my cheeks, working him with tongue and lips and all the tricks I’d learned on the streets and in bedrooms where need was the only currency. “You like trouble.”
He swore, hips jerking. I kept eye contact, letting him see every filthy, eager thought in my head. He let me set the pace, but his hand never left my hair, his other palm stroking my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek every time I gagged around him.
“Hands behind your back,” he ordered softly. I obeyed, folding my arms behind me, trusting him not to push too far. Herocked his hips, thrusting shallowly, letting me take as much as I wanted, then pulling out just enough to let me breathe, teasing the edge between control and abandon.
When he was close, he pulled me off with a gasp, hauling me to my feet, devouring my mouth in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue. He spun me, pressing my chest against the table, hips grinding against my ass, his hand sliding down to palm me through my jeans. I pushed back, desperate for friction, for more.
“Take them off,” he said, voice dark. “I want to see you.”