Chapter Six

Brooklyn

Lust is a risky game, a counterfeit for love. It can make people lie, deceive, and manipulate. Just a few days ago, I was baking, working to grow my business, and living my life the way I'd grown accustomed to. Now, I was staring into the smoldering eyes of a killer as he stood at my door—all tall, dark, and delicious—while I was exposed from the waist down with flames igniting between my thighs. His gaze, almost black, burned into mine like fire, the magnetic pull between us so intense that I was shaking from the inside.

And why was I allowing myself to get so lost in him when everything he stood for was revolting and reprehensible? It made no sense, as I loathed everything West stood for. Yet, all he had to do was look at me and I felt myself building, felt a deep ache growing in my core, and felt my morals being depleted. I was ravenous for him, the pull and desire far beyond simple lust. But no. Absolutely the fuck no. I was better than this, stronger than this.

Damn him for making me feel this way.

But then, holy crap, he was walking toward me—all power, confidence, and brutally handsome—and tearing down my last bit of resistance with his eyes locked hard on mine in the full-length mirror. My stomach was dropping, the air growing too heavy to breathe, and I was wondering why I hadn't shut the door, locked it, and moved my dresser in front of it. Hell, why wasn't I trying to run? Pushing him away? Doing anything and everything in my power to stop him? Despite the warnings in my head, I was doing just the opposite. Welcoming his arms wrapping around my waist. Moaning and melting into the stiffness of his erection. Craving his touch and doing every senseless thing I knew I shouldn't. Everything I couldn't stop even if I wanted to. Dammit, I wanted him. All of him. Even if it was wrong. Even if it was shameful and dangerous.

Even if it was nothing more than lust.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his stare still hard on mine in the mirror while his lips brushed my nape. "Why the hell aren't you married?"

I lowered my eyes, afraid to look up. Afraid to see the deep need in his gaze. Afraid to fall deeper into the clutches of this madman. "I almost was once."

"Almost?"

"I was working crazy hours trying to find a way to open my shop. Experimenting with different recipes, searching for a place I could afford, and looking into financing options. He decided my work meant more than he did."

"Look at me," he ordered in a rough tone that had my eyes lifting and latching onto his. "He was selfish and weak. He didn't deserve you."

"And you do?"

A nerve in his jaw ticked, and his grip around my waist tightened. "Perhaps not, but for days we've been cooped up in this house with so much sexual tension building between us that it's become damn near unbearable. Forget everything and everyone else and let me make you feel good. Let's make each other feel good."

He was rock hard against me, and I could feel the pulse of his heart as hunger and pleasure spiraled through me. With a shake of my head, I tried pushing away as his hands lifted then traveled down my breasts, my stomach, then through my slick slit. "There's nothing wrong with two consenting adults taking care of their needs," he whispered against the shell of my ear. "I want you. I'm fucking mad for you. Let me make you come. Let me make you shiver." Without breaking our stare, he pressed the palm of his hand against the engorged bud of my clit.

Desperate to break free from his blistering eyes, to stop trembling at his touch, and to keep my heart, body, and soul from being bare all the way to the bone, I pushed at his hand. "I don't want this. I don't want you. No matter how you arouse my body, you're still a criminal. I won't let you inside me. I won't let you break me."

"Yes, I'm a bad man, but you are far from being a saint, sweetheart. Last time I checked, harboring someone's criminal activities in this country was a felony. So what does that make you?"

"Don't compare me to you, West. I've never even had a speeding ticket. And as I've said a dozen times, I don't know where Ben is. And … and I don't want this. I don't want a … a criminal."

"Take a hard look at yourself in the mirror, Brooklyn. Think back to what I told you about these beautiful nipples." He ran a hand over my tank top and the swell of my breasts, his eyes like dark coals and all over me. "Your mouth is one thing, but these tits still don't lie. Neither does the wet heat between your thighs. Deny it all you like, but you're hungry to be fucked by a criminal and way too beautiful to not have this body satisfied every damn day."

Before I could disagree, he pulled my hips outward and pushed the swell of his erection against me. "Convince me I'm wrong. Tell me your nipples aren't hard and your breasts heavy. Then tell me I'm imagining the hot arousal dripping down your thighs. Convince me, sweetheart. Take your best shot at making me believe you don't want to feel my cock inside you, and I won't lay another finger on you."

"This is wrong. You are wrong," I added, yet doing nothing to push him away as my sex ached for him when I wished it wouldn't. "I don't want this."

"You do."

"I don't. This isn't who I am."

"Then turn around, look me in the eye, and tell me to stop."

But I didn't turn around, didn't move. My strength was gone, my willpower dissipated. I just stood where I was. Staring into the heat of his gaze with my hips pressing against his swelling erection and everything in my sex a quivering bundle of nerves. Shameful tears stung my eyes as they stayed locked on his in the mirror, shredding me. Weakening me further. I may as well have had Fuck Me tattooed across my forehead.

He raised a dark brow while hunger burned in his gaze. "I knew my little deceiver was in there somewhere. Now breathe, stop with the deceit, and tell me what you want me to do," he said in a tone deep, hypnotic, and unmistakably dominant.

Shivers tracked up my back and his words went straight to my clit. Was I losing my mind? Forgetting every moral my momma engrained in me? Letting this man put his hands on me was depraved, disgusting, and wrong on every ethical level. But suddenly, I was seeing more than just a merciless killer in West. There was a sadness, a loneliness, and a tic of compassion in his face, and I could all but feel his heartbeat even though he denied he had one. Worst of all, dammit, was that I loved what he was doing. The filthy talk. The raw passion. The threat of danger lurking behind his eyes. I wanted to cave to his needs. Comply to anything he asked. I wanted to climb on his dick and ride him until we were both boneless, spent, and I couldn't take a step without remembering him inside me.

Everything in my head said I shouldn't want him.

Everything in my heart said he was going to hurt me.

Everything in my body said I had to have him.

"I—I don't want you to go."

"Then slide your pretty fingers through your hot cunt and show me how wet you are."

Sweetest Jesus, the mouth on this man. The absolute nerve. He was everything I never thought I wanted, everything I thought I loathed. Yet, I did just as he commanded and lowered a hand through my slit, then rotated to face him and held it in front of me.

"Soaked," he said in a tone that vibrated with control. "Goddamn soaked."

"I still hate you," I replied with a tremor in my tone. "I despise all that you are."

"Noted," he said with a tick in his jaw before capturing my mouth with his and kissing me senseless as his fingers plunged inside me. Sweeping his tongue over mine and stroking with long, leisurely licks while hooking his fingers at the perfect angle inside my sex had me drowning in his taste. Weakening at his touch. Falling prey to a hired killer as he abolished all my self-worth and ripped away every bit of strength and courage I had left.

"For the love of fuck, I need to taste you, need to be inside you." His fingers slid free, he pushed the shirt over my head, unclasped my bra, then hoisted me up. With my legs winding around his waist, he walked me to the mattress that was still without linens but had been returned to the bed frame. He dropped me onto my back, staring at me with his gaze like dark coals and the eyes of that damn snake shooting ice up my spine.

Still clothed, he lowered himself on top of me with his erection pulsing against my inner thigh. For a few seconds he just stared like he wanted to say something. Then, he covered my nipple with his mouth, sucking and teasing with his teeth while his hand trailed down my torso until two, then three fingers dipped deep and hard inside me.

"Oh, God." Panting and body arching with every rough tug of my nipple and each demanding plunge of his fingers, I was fading. Falling. Surrendering at the hands of a criminal. Did I believe this was some fairy-tale romance that was going to conclude with a beautiful ending? No. Did I believe it was just sex and I'd end up even lonelier than I was before? That was a given. But I couldn't deny this pleasure, this aching need, or the bone-deep desperation I felt. He could take my mouth, my pussy, even my ass, and I wouldn't try stopping him. I wanted more.

I wanted everything.

I wanted West McCoy.