Forbidden Fate (Crowne Point 3)

I lowered my head until our lips were separated only by the moonlight.

“I’m not your fucking friend, Story.”

“You said—”

“You were the only person I wanted to be good for, Story. I wanted to be a good friend. I wanted to be a good husband.”

“So be a good husband,” she beseeched.

“You didn’t let me fucking finish.”

Our breathing was ragged. Ragged like my willpower. Ragged like the shreds of my dignity and soul.

“I want to be a good husband, Story, but I want you to be a bad wife more.”

I slammed my lips against hers.

Fuck.

Story Hale is my heroin and I have missed this high.

STORY

* * *

My mouth opened on a gasp as Grayson flooded into me. A vital, missing part of me had come back to life. I can feel again. I can breathe.

Just as I was about to dive into the inky black waters of my desire, he broke the kiss.

“Fuck. Fuck. Sorry.”

There was just a sliver of starlight between our lips, the most fragile connection.

I knew I should push him off, but all this time I’d been deprived of him. His lips. His taste. His soul.

He exhaled, about to turn his head, and I gripped his shirt, fisting the fabric, needing that thread of connection to stay. Grayson’s gaze flickered from my hands, back to my eyes.

My lips parted, but I didn’t know what to say. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I just have this bleeding need inside me.

So I settled for his name.

“Grayson,” I whispered.

“Little nun,” he groaned, tangling his hands into my hair, thrusting me hard against his lips as our bodies collided once more.

I dragged my nails around his waist, back, biceps—anything—before knotting them in his hair. I wanted his hair messy. I wanted it ruined. I never wanted to see it in that perfect coif again.

His hands slid from my wrists, tangling into my fingers, pushing our entwined hands into the mattress. His erection throbbed against my thigh, but it was his kiss that Grayson focused on.

I could feel them—all the words he didn’t say, the secrets he’s still keeping, the apologies he never gave—on his lips.

On his worshiping lips and punishing tongue, in his desperate bite, I felt the words. Bleeding into my chest. Clinging to our lips.

Grayson is a poet, but his lips are his pen, and his kiss is his poetry. And I’m frantic for it.

“More,” I begged.

It felt like he’s holding himself back. Holding me back.