Blood Cure (Blood Type 3)

He took a step back.

“When are you going to trust me?” she asked in frustration.

The look he shot her said everything she needed to know. He trusted her but he wasn’t going to put her at risk. He’d done that time and again. Even when he’d seen that he could control himself drinking from her. Now more than ever she wanted them to surrender to this.

She’d left that patio with his death on her conscience and his bloody jacket on her shoulders. She never wanted to waste another moment.

Reyna took his hand in hers and pulled him toward the bed. She didn’t say anything. Words were useless between them anyway. They could speak with stolen glances and quirked lips and heated skin and gentle touches. Their bodies could speak for them. Express all the things that they couldn’t bring themselves to say. All the fears that had clouded their minds for too long.

No more.

She wouldn’t live in fear.

She would only live in the moment.

She had her Becks back. It was a miracle. And she was going to treat it like one.

Her hands moved to his jacket. She slipped them under the material and pushed it off his shoulders. He didn’t move to stop her. Just quirked an eyebrow in her direction.

She smirked at him. Then moved to the buttons on his black shirt. She started at the top, slowly unbuttoning it until his chest was bare before her. Her nails grazed the solid chest and muscled abdomen. He was as formidable as a brick wall and every inch promised certain death. But not for her.

His shirt followed his jacket onto the floor and her hands skimmed over his shoulders, across the bulging biceps, over his forearms, to his hands. Those beautiful hands with long fingers and broad palms. Hands that had caressed her cheeks and grasped her ass firmly and commanded her body.

Reyna stripped out of her shirt and placed those amazing hands on her waist. She shivered at his touch, which was a shade cooler than her superheated body. His fingers flexed into her skin. They were possessive. Claiming her flesh as his own, running those fingers up her ribs and around to her back. He flicked the clasp of her bra. Her breasts fell forward out of their enclosure and the bra hit the floor. His hands skimmed around to the front of her body, covering her breasts. The pads of his thumbs flicking against her erect nipples.

A moan escaped her lips. Her back arched into the palms of his hands and she closed her eyes. Desire shot straight to her core. He pinched a nipple roughly and she squirmed under the attention. Her body pulsing as desire soaked her panties.

“I can smell you,” he said, brushing a fang against the shell of her ear.

She shivered in anticipation and reached for his belt buckle.

“I can sense everything about you,” he said, dipping his hand inside her jeans. “But the smell of you is purely primal.”

She yanked his belt loose and tugged down his zipper.

“Oh and you’re so wet,” he groaned like a prayer.

She shuddered under his touch as he slicked a finger through her wetness and dragged it back up to her clit. He stroked slow methodical circles around her most sensitive area. She lost all cognitive thought as he toyed with her.

“Oh fuck,” she gasped.

In that moment, she didn’t care how he had come back. Just that he was here. And she needed him more furiously than she had ever needed anyone or anything.

Her body responded like a struck match. Every touch fanned the flames until she was ready to combust. And still he didn’t stop. His fingers dominating her clit. His touch clouding her senses. Everything coalescing into the one thought: Beckham is alive.

He was alive and here and touching her. He wanted her and needed her. Her life was still moving forward. It wasn’t completely derailed. And he was here to see her come out on top despite the hell she’d had to endure. It was insanity that kidnapping and prison had crippled her so much, but his death had only made her want to fight back. To make people pay for what had been taken from her. And she wasn’t going to stop until they did pay.

Because he may be here, but they’d done everything they could to take him from her.

“Stop thinking,” Beckham said, as if he’d read her mind. “Come for me, Little One.”

She moaned on a breath and released all the tension in her body. Her brow smoothed, her jaw relaxed, her body sagged—and then it hit her like a freight train. The orgasm ripped through her as unexpectedly as Beckham’s presence here.

She crumpled forward into him. He kissed her hair softly and then lifted her into his arms. She put hers around his neck as he placed her on the bed then crawled in after her. Her jeans melted away and he shucked off his own.