Stolen Soulmate (Crowne Point 2)

I paused, then said, “Mr. Crowne.” A wrinkle formed between his golden brows, and he leaned back a fraction.

I chose the one word that wouldn’t only stop him, but myself. Put distance between us and remind me who I really was in this equation: just his servant, his nothing.

“Come, Snitch.”

His eyes burned, waiting for me to do as he said. My heart hammered. The ink was barely dry on the pages. I don’t know if I was ready for this. Somehow I felt like I was more of a virgin than Grayson. Nervous, skittish. He’d warned me when all of this began that the things he’d seen and done would wreck me.

I should’ve believed him then.

When I didn’t do anything for a minute, he arched a brow.

Do whatever he says.

I could use my safe word, but a twisted part of me liked doing what he told me to do. Liked the rush and the way his eyes hardened. It felt like power, power over one of the most powerful people in the world.

I’d barely taken a step to him when he ripped me to him by the small of my waist. His other hand tangled in my hair, yanking my head to the side.

“Fuck,” he said, lips at my neck. “Which part do I eat first.”

Delicious tingles spread along my skin at his words. His nose ran along my neck, goose bumps following in his wake. His hands slid from my hair, to my waist, and along my body, feeling every inch of me, like he couldn’t do it fast enough, before tangling back in my curls.

Deliriously, I found the zipper of my dress, but his hand overtook mine. Stopping me.

“I’m going to ruin your white dress, Snitch. Ruin you. Until you’re all fucked up from me.”

His words were a jagged growl, and my heart pounded and ached from them. I was drunk, I was needy. He vibrated in my soul and clouded the air.

Grayson pushed up my dress and bruised the inside of my bare thigh. I thought he would rip at my panties, fuck me, and get it over with. My first time with West had been like that. Quick, dirty, efficient.

All Gray did was rub my thighs. I wanted him inside, deeper, but he rubbed me over the fabric, an excruciatingly teasing rhythm. I tried to push myself into his hand, and he smiled against my neck.

“Ask for it, Snitch,” he said, breath hot on my flesh. “Beg.”

I wanted him to bite me like he did before, but I couldn’t be the one to say it, so I held on to him tighter. The coarse fabric of his jeans rubbed against my bare legs, his shirt silk beneath my nails.

“Please,” I whispered.

Grayson pushed aside my panties, swallowing what sounded like a groan. “You’re so fucking wet.”

With two fingers he rubbed a delicious, aching friction that made me throb. I don’t know if I was breathing. I only knew him. Making me throb, ache. Up and down, but not going inside me.

Then he gently spread me, and our eyes collided.

A small sound escaped my lips, and I dug into his shoulders. His eyes blazed, his jaw fea

thered. Since that night, we’d skirted crossing the line. Tiptoeing up to it, stepping a little over, then always hopping back. With his fingers almost inside me and his eyes locked on mine, that thing between us more than popped.

It exploded.

This felt like something meaningful. Something important. Something more.

“You are perfect,” he groaned. “Fucking divine.”

This is why I can’t rip the tether out, why I can’t let this go. There’s more to him than cruelty. He uses it like armor. I’m addicted to these stolen moments. These gentle touches and soft words and softer moments.

No…not addicted. I’m strung out.

“You are mine,” his voice warbled, so low it was like chimney smoke. “Fuck. Say it.”