Forbidden Fate (Crowne Point 3)

An entity.

I eyed the spot I’d taken Grayson’s virginity, where I’d given my soul forever. The beautiful ornate rugs he’d pulled off the wall still lay on the ground, frozen in time. This place was a snow globe that needed to be shattered.

I’ll ruin them.

Good.

A vision of Grayson’s wolfish grin blasted into me, shotgun shells of memory shredding into my soul. I stumbled. West grasped my elbow, peering down at me, warm brown eyes twinkling behind his mask.

“What is this place, Angel?”

A graveyard.

I pushed West toward the rugs. At first he was a wall, unmoving, but then he let me. His intense stare didn’t let up the entire time. He had questions in his eyes I couldn’t answer, and more emotion than I was prepared to deal with.

I gripped his massive shoulders and tried to shove him down to the rugs.

I’m bruised.

Black.

Broken. I wanted to desecrate this room. The piece of me that wouldn’t let Grayson go—

“Hey, slow down.” West gripped my cheeks.

His brown eyes searched, probed. Every pause, every breath, I breathed in Grayson, and my lungs cracked with the betrayal.

“Are you going to fuck me?” I snapped.

West blinked, brows furrowing. He let me push him to the floor. I climbed on top of him, fumbling with the button at his trousers, fingers shaking. West’s hand covered mine, helping me, guiding me.

His free hand slid under my dress, up my thigh.

Slow.

Easy.

A direct contrast to my furious, fumbling movements.

“No panties…” I could hear the grin, the lazy smile in his voice. “Since when do you not wear panties, Angel?” He gripped my flesh, fisting and bruising my ass. I froze, our eyes locked.

Dirty little nun. Do you always sleep without panties?

“K-keep the mask on,” was all I said.

I p

opped the button on his pants. He was iron-hard, bigger than I remembered. Thicker than Grayson, I think, if it was possible. I dragged his pants past his roped thighs, my fingers trembling as I climbed atop him.

My costume felt too much like a nightgown.

“Story,” West said softly.

Story.

My name from his lips felt intimate, wrong. He’s supposed to call me Angel with a mocking, humorous lilt.

“Don’t call me that,” I whispered. “Just…don’t.”