Page 65 of The Vagabond

SAXON

S he’s still breathless, skin flushed and slick, hair damp and wild, lips bruised from where I’ve kissed her — bitten her — devoured her. She’s beautiful. Fucking untouchable. Except she’s not. Not anymore. Now she’s mine.

I drag her to the vanity, her feet stumbling, knees weak, and press her palms flat to the cold marble counter.

“Look at yourself,” I growl, my voice ragged, rough, still shaking from how close I am to completely losing control.

Her eyes lift to the mirror — dark, wide, ruined. Her gaze crashes into mine in the glass, and the sight punches the air clean out of my chest.

I step behind her, towering, bare, cock already hard again like I didn’t just fuck her through the mattress twice.

“You see this girl?” I whisper against her ear, my chest flush to her back, my fingers curling possessively around her wrists. “She’s mine.”

She shivers, a small sound escaping her lips — a broken, helpless sound. But she doesn’t speak. So I grab her jaw, rough, forcing her chin up, making sure her eyes can’t drop away from the reflection .

“Say it,” I snarl.

Her voice breaks on a whisper. “I’m yours.”

My blood roars in my veins. My hand slides down, slow, relentless, over the curve of her belly, between her thighs. She’s soaked. Soaked.

Her knees buckle the second I stroke her clit, slow, torturous circles, the kind that make her whole body quake.

“You see that?” I whisper, lips brushing her throat, dragging my teeth along the tender skin there. “You’re still wet for me. You’re still fucking aching.”

She lets out a shuddering moan, nodding, trembling, hips rocking back desperately into my hand.

“Say it again,” I rasp, fingers pressing tighter, drawing her closer to the edge, closer to the point where she forgets how to stand, how to breathe, how to be without me inside her.

“I’m yours,” she gasps, her voice breaking, hips jerking against my palm.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!” she cries out, raw, wild, desperate.

I release her throat, only to wrap my hand around my cock, dragging the tip through her soaked folds, slow, deliberate, watching her eyes widen in the mirror — watching her tremble and fall apart just from the anticipation.

“I want you to see,” I snarl, lining up behind her, pressing into her in one brutal, claiming stroke, so deep that she sobs and shatters against the glass.

“I want you to watch yourself break on me.”

Her mouth falls open in a soundless scream, her eyes blown wide, her body arching, straining, helpless as I fuck her harder, deeper, until every thrust punches the breath right out of her.

“This,” slam.

“Is,” slam.

“What,” slam .

“You,” slam.

“Fucking,” slam.

“Do to me.”

Her hands scramble for purchase on the counter, nails scratching at the marble, desperate, sobbing, trembling, but her eyes never leave the mirror.

And when she comes — again — it’s with my name torn from her throat, etched into her bones, smeared into the fogging glass, as if even the mirror knows she’s mine.

She’s curled against me, naked, soft, flushed — breath steady, mouth parted slightly, lashes fluttering as she drifts somewhere I can’t follow. And I’m just… lying here.

Fucking wrecked.

I can still feel her on me — her touch, her mouth, her goddamn scent in my skin. She’s so small like this, so delicate, like if I breathe too hard, I might break her.

I drag a rough hand through my hair, my chest tight, my heart hammering like it doesn’t know how to slow down.

How the fuck did this happen? How did she —the girl I was supposed to protect, supposed to rescue and walk away from— become the one thing I can’t live without?

She undid me. Completely. Without even trying.

She sleeps, and I stare, and all I can think is: she’s in my blood now.

In my bones. Carved under my skin like a scar that will never, ever fade.

And the worst, most vicious part? I don’t want to be saved from it.

I don’t want to fight it. I want to drown in her.

I want to wake up every goddamn day and remind her, over and over, who she belongs to — and who I belong to.

Because it’s not a one-way fucking street anymore.

I’m hers, just as much as she’s mine. Maybe more. And if anyone tries to take her from me again? They’ll find out real fucking quick what kind of monster Saxon North becomes when someone touches his woman.

The first thing I notice when she stirs is the way she breathes.

Soft. Shallow. A little uneven, like her body’s still trying to pull itself back together after the night we just had.

I prop myself up on one elbow, the sheet pooling low on my hips, my eyes locked on her like a man who’s just found his religion. She shifts slightly, a small, sleepy sound slipping from her lips, and I swear to God, it punches straight through my ribs.

Her lashes flutter, cheeks flushed, hair a beautiful, chaotic mess across the pillow.

And fuck. Just fuck .

I feel my throat tighten, my pulse kick, my cock stir awake —because all I can think, as I watch her blink herself back to consciousness, is how goddamn perfect she looks right here, in my bed, wrapped up in the wreckage we made together.

Her eyes crack open, hazy, unfocused, and the second they land on me, I see it — that soft flush of awareness, that tiny flicker of a smile, that little hitch of her breath, as she remembers exactly where she is and who she’s with.

I can’t help it — my hand moves without thinking, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, my fingertips dragging slow, reverent lines down her cheek, her jaw, her throat.

“Morning, baby,” I murmur, my voice low, rough, still hoarse from everything we spilled into each other last night.

She lets out a soft, bashful laugh, her lips curving, her eyes fluttering closed again for just a second. But I’m not done looking at her. Not even close.

I drag the sheet down a little, just enough to bare the curve of her shoulder, the faint marks I left there — the proof that she’s mine, and I’m hers, and there’s no walking away from this now.

I lean in, press my mouth to the spot where her pulse flutters, feel her shiver beneath me.

“I should let you sleep,” I murmur against her skin. “But fuck, Maxine… all I can think about right now is pulling you under me again.”

Her sleepy laugh turns into a soft, breathy sound as I nip gently at her shoulder, my hand sliding low, possessive, hungry, like I’m already making promises with my touch. And in that moment, I know one thing with brutal, blinding clarity: I’ll never get enough of her.

Not in this lifetime. Nor in the next.

She gives a soft, sleepy laugh as I kiss her shoulder, but when I pull back, I see it. That flicker in her eyes. The shadow. The weight that never really leaves.

I brush her hair back, tilting her face toward mine, my thumb grazing along her cheekbone, and I murmur, “Talk to me, Maxine.”

She hesitates, her gaze darting away, her lip caught between her teeth.

For a second, I think she’s going to shrug it off, give me a soft lie, pretend she’s fine. But then her eyes lift — dark, vulnerable, wide open — and she whispers, “I’m scared.”

The words land like a punch in my chest. Not because I didn’t know. But because she’s letting herself say it. I exhale slowly, pressing my forehead to hers, my hand sliding to cup the back of her neck, pulling her close until there’s no space between us.

“I know, baby,” I murmur, my voice rough, almost breaking. “I know. ”

She shudders in my arms, her fingers curling weakly against my chest.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispers. “I don’t know how to stop… waiting for something to go wrong.”

And fuck — those words tear me open like a blade slipped between the ribs, sharp and merciless, stripping me down to something rawer than bone.

I pull her closer, arms wrapping tight, tight enough to fuse her to me, tight enough hold back every storm.

“Baby,” I rasp, my voice rough, shaking, “I don’t need you to know how. That’s not your burden anymore. That’s mine . I’ll carry the weight. I’ll hold the line. All you have to do is be here with me.”

She lets out a trembling, broken sound, her face pressing into the curve of my neck, her body curling into mine like she’s trying to crawl inside my skin, trying to bury herself in the only thing that feels real.

And God — I want to let her. I want to crack myself open and make a home for her there, somewhere inside my ribs, where nothing and no one can touch her. I press a kiss into her hair, my throat tight, my chest aching in ways I haven’t let myself feel in years.

“I’ve got you, Maxine,” I whisper, again and again, like a prayer, like a promise I’ll carve into the skin of anyone who dares threaten it.

“I’m here. And I’m not leaving. Not now, not ever. This — we — this is forever.”

And in that shattered, perfect moment, with her heart pounding frantic and fragile against mine, I realize: she’s the one who undid me.

Not her body. Not her mouth. Not the way she moans when I break her open.

But her trust. Her trembling, battered, beautiful soul, offered up in shaking hands, letting me hold it like it’s worth saving, like I’m worth saving .

And I swear to God, if it takes every last breath I have, I will spend the rest of my life earning the right to keep her safe.