Page 13 of Velvet Betrayal (The Dark Prince of Boston #3)
Kieran
S he didn’t bolt. Not even when I half-expected her to. Instead, Ruby reached behind her, shut the bathroom door with a soft click, and kissed me again—slower this time, her hand splayed over my chest.
I let her take the lead. Every muscle in me wanted to flip her and pin her to the marble, but I kept it on a leash.
Maybe she could feel that tension, maybe she just wanted to savor the moment, but either way, she held me close, her mouth soft and searching, like she was spelling out a secret just for us. Just for tonight. Just for now.
There was always a charge between us, but this time it was tangled up with everything we couldn’t say—the panic, the exhaustion, the sense that tomorrow was waiting to devour us.
She was trembling a little, and so was I, but she didn’t let it slow her down.
She rose up on her toes, nosed along my jaw, fingers digging into my shoulder
Her mouth crashed against mine, bruising, hungry, alive. For a second, nothing else existed—no threats, no enemies, just the two of us and the heat between us.
She broke first, pressing her face to my collarbone, panting like she’d been running. “God. I really am the dumbest human alive,” she muttered, half-laugh, half-regret.
I caught her chin and made her look at me. “You’re also the hottest. And I need to be inside you.”
Not a line. Not a tease. Just the truth, punched out of me like breath from a blow. My voice went rough around the edges. “I’m not going to make it through the night if I don’t get you under me.”
She huffed a laugh against my skin. “You’re like a feral cat. No wonder you’re not housebroken.”
“Then don’t leave the door open,” I said, teeth against her ear. “Don’t touch me like that and expect me not to crawl into your lap and stay there.”
She shivered. Let the robe fall from her shoulder.
I ran my thumb along the curve of her waist, slow and greedy, memorizing skin like I’d never get to touch it again.
“It doesn’t have to be a big deal, Rubes. You can feel guilty later. Take it to Father—what’s your priest called again? Doesn’t matter. Tell him you’ve sinned. That’s what repenting is for. You have to sin first.”
“Did you flunk out of Catechism?”
“Keep talking dirty to me.”
“You know what Catechism is.”
“I do. Father Sullivan kicked me out for asking why Jesus couldn’t do magic until he was in his thirties.”
“You’re the worst.”
“And yet…”
“He didn’t like you.”
“No. Fuck Father Sullivan. You like me.”
She looked at me, not saying a word. But she was already pulling my hand to her waist, as eager as the first time, the want in her winding tighter under whatever self-control she had left.
I grabbed her ass, lifted her up onto the counter, and pressed her back against the sink until the tap started dripping. She let out a surprised yelp.
“Sorry,” I said, reaching behind her to turn the water off.
She was laughing too hard to care, so I steadied her with a hand at her hip, thumbing the bone there.
The robe had slipped to her elbows, blue-edged in the hotel’s spa lighting, baring skin that went all goosebumped in the A/C.
She pulled me in between her knees, squeezing me close, and for a second it felt less like sex and more like a dare—how close could she pull me before I broke.
“No, do it again,” she said finally, locking her legs around my hips. Her robe, untied now, gaped open at her chest, nipples peaked and flushed dark against the pale. I ran my hand up her thigh and under the robe, finding her skin hot under my palm.
“You keep making this harder for me,” I whispered, nosing into her neck. The part of me that wanted to be gentle didn’t stand a chance. I wanted the fight, the struggle, wanted her to remember it tomorrow when she shifted in her chair, the marks on her ass a private reminder that I’d been there.
“You were always hard for me,” she shot back, breathless but still sassy.
I let my fingers trace from her hip to the edge of her underwear. There was nothing else under the robe—just this tiny black scrap, tight against her, barely covering her slit. I pulled her forward, making her ride the slippery edge of ceramic, and slid two fingers inside. She was wet. Desperate.
“I love how wet you get for me. It’s one of my favorite things about you,” I said, thumb finding her clit as I started to finger her.
“That is not the compliment you think it is.”
“One of my favorites,” I said, working her harder. “Not my favorite.”
“You’re insufferable,” she hissed, but then she shuddered, head bumping the mirror, eyes darting up like she wasn’t sure she was still in her own body.
I didn’t stop. I dragged my thumb in slow, mean circles, never quite giving her the rhythm she wanted, watching her thighs twitch and lock around my arm. By now my dick was throbbing, straining against sweatpants like it was about to bust out, but I wanted her to lose it first. Always did.
She bit her lip, eyes wild, daring me not to finish what I started. When she was close, her hips locked and quivered, and she grabbed my wrist so hard her nails dug in. “Do you ever—” Her voice broke, “do you ever fucking stop—”
“Never,” I promised, and the look she gave me in the mirror was pure challenge. “Because honestly… that’s my favorite part: watching you come, sweetheart. The way you’re completely undone for me. The way you’re just a raw fucking nerve. The way you’re nothing but mine.”
She tried to sass back but it melted into a gasp, her thighs clamping so tight around my hand I had to brace myself on the counter.
Color flared up her neck, cheekbones wet with sweat, hair a mess that somehow made her look even better.
Her eyes found mine, furious and pleading, and I watched the exact second her knees buckled and she rode out the first, silent shockwave of her orgasm.
I locked a hand behind her neck and kissed her, hard enough to bruise. She met me, all teeth and heat.
“I need you inside me right now, Kieran.”
“Yes, you do.”
I spun her around, bent her over the sink. She looked up at her own reflection, face flushed, pupils blown wide, and braced herself. “Don’t be a dick,” she said, but she was already hiking her robe up, muscles in her thigh flexing with anticipation.
I lined myself up, dragging the head of my cock through her slick, just to hear her moan. “You want it?” I asked, not because I needed confirmation but because she loved to make me beg.
“God, shut up,” she said, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving.
“Ah, you mustn’t want it.”
She turned her head, glared at me. “Fuck me, Kieran.”
I grinned. “Okay. Since you asked so nice…”
I pushed in slow, savoring the way she stretched around me, the way she gasped and clamped down, refusing to give me the upper hand. My hands locked at her hips, grinding her against the sink until her cheek pressed against the mirror, her breath fogging over our twin reflections.
God, she was so fucking tight and hot and perfect.
She pushed back, meeting me thrust for thrust, like she wanted to erase the world, erase the fear, just lose herself in this. And I wanted it too—wanted to fuck her until tomorrow didn’t matter, until the only thing that counted was the shudder winding up her spine and into mine.
The more desperate she got, the harder I went, chasing the sound of her falling apart. She choked a curse into her elbow, fingers white-knuckled on the marble, until her body clenched around me so hard I almost lost it.
I reached forward, palmed her lower belly, grinding deeper, drinking in the helpless noises that spilled from her. I would have kept going, but she broke first—her body locked up, then shook, jaw slack, head tipping back onto my shoulder.
She half-collapsed, elbows splayed, but I stayed inside her, riding out the aftershocks until she begged, “Please. Please.”
“Please what? Use your words.”
“Come inside me,” she said. “Please.”
I wanted to make her say it again, but there was zero chance I was holding back after that.
I bottomed out, pressed flush to her back, and came, hard, the sound torn out of me, muffled against her shoulder.
It hit like a blackout—like I’d forgotten what it was to lose control with her, forgotten how the aftershocks left us both raw and alive.
She laughed, breathless, into the sink. “Jesus. I forgot you were this much of a maniac.”
I let her go, ran a hand down her thigh, and smacked her ass for good measure. She squealed.
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it,” she said, but she was grinning.
After all the years, all the disasters, this was the only thing she’d ever really wanted from me—not safety, not comfort, just proof, over and over, that no one else could take her apart and put her back together the way I could.
“I’m happy to remind you how much of a maniac I am whenever you want, sweetheart.”
“Ha-ha,” she deadpanned. She pulled herself together, tying the robe, then caught my eye in the mirror. For a second, the old fondness was there, the affection that always hovered just beneath the sarcasm.
She ran a hand through her hair. “You’re never going to let me go, are you?”
“Nah,” I said. “Well, maybe. If I know you and Rosie are safe, I’ll think about it.”
“That’s not good enough.”
I shrugged. “I know. That’s my brand. But I promise I’ll keep you safe. No matter what.”
And I meant it.
Even if it cost me everything.