Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
I watch her. Head tipped back, mouth open, my cock slammin' into her wet pussy while her legs shake around my waist and her pretty manicured fingers dig white-knuckled into my skin.
I think about how she's gonna be sore tomorrow in exactly the place I want her to be sore, how every time she moves she's gonna know, and I want that, I want her body to remember what I can't say.
"Look at me," I tell her.
Her head comes forward. Eyes find mine. Glassy, dark, completely wrecked.
I keep the pace. Hard. Steady. Deliberate.
I think about comin' inside her. How she takes it. How she wants it. How she's never once asked me not to and I don't know if I could stop myself if she did.
"You feel that?"
She nods, can't find words, which is its own kind of power.
"That's mine," I tell her. "That's mine and I want you to feel it tomorrow and the day after and every day after that."
She moans my name and it comes out broken in the middle, split clean in two, and I press my forehead to hers and just—drive—because I'm losin' the ability to be measured about any of this, losin' the careful pace I had five minutes ago, the control I was so proud of gone like it was never there.
I think about what she said. Your hands. Your weight. Your name when you're close.
I think about how she said cock like it was the most natural word in the world.
I think about how I'm never gonna be done with Savannah Ashby.
How I'll come back to this silo when I'm old if I make it to old.
How I'll come back as a ghost if I don't.
I don't say any of it.
I just fuck her harder, and she takes every bit of it, and the silo rattles, and her voice breaks when she screams my name…
CHAPTER 6
I'm still panting and moaning from the climax when Legion rests his face against my neck. It's a surrender of sorts, I can feel it. Like it's all catching up with us. Like the adrenaline is runnin' low. Like the fight or flight instinct has been on red flag for too long and the whole thing is about to come apart.
"I love you," he says. And then he lets out a long breath and everything I just thought becomes true.
In this moment, there's nothing left but this.
Us.
Two people in an old silo, clinging to each other like opposite ends of a magnet.
"Come home with me." It's not the answer, but I say it anyway. "Just… you can leave your bike here. We can ride double on Cassia and just go home."
He chuckles, low and soft, and then he lowers me down off the wall, gentle in a way that contradicts everything else about him, and leans back—just slightly, just enough—like he's tryin' to get a better look at me and needs the distance to do it right.
Like I'm something he has to stand back from to properly see.
His unruly blond hair falls forward over his eyes, castin' a shadow across his face, and even though the dim amber light filtering in from the fairy bulbs strung outside the silo does its level best to glow him up, it still can't quite get there—because he's the kind of beautiful that light has to work for.
He still looks like an angel—even now, even here, even after everything—and I think that is the cruelest joke God ever told. That He made a man this beautiful and then built a whole mythology of ruin around him like a fence.
I will never see the demon he claims to live inside him. I've studied every inch of that ink, traced the war on his skin with my fingertips in the dark, learned the whole terrible scripture of it—the falling angels, the broken gate, the chained thing held by the throat—and I still cannot find the monster he insists he is.
Because when I look at him I only ever see the boy.
I don't care how old he gets, all I see is that perfect, beautiful, strong, funny boy who wanted to take me places. Who learned my name like a prayer and never stopped saying it.
Maybe that demon is there for other people.
Maybe it's there in the clubhouse, in the dark rooms, in whatever happens when I'm not watching.
But standin' here in the dark silo, with his blond hair falling forward and his eyes on mine like I'm the only fixed point in a spinning world—all I see is him.
Just him.
And the wanting inside me is so complete it feels like a sickness.
"I want to," he admits. "Trust me, Savannah, I would love to go home with you right now."
This costs him a lot. It must feel a little bit like surrender. That he made a mistake when he left me in the middle of the night last summer. When he went back to Brick, and the Badlands, and all the trouble and death that came with it.