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Lusting after your dead brother’s wife, especially when you were responsible for his death, might not top blasphemy, but it must be on the list.
Which means I have a one-way ticket to hell with my dick riding shotgun.
She’s not wrong. On either of those. In my twenty-nine years, I’ve been in the ring and on both sides of the law.
This is just one of the reasons I don’t plan on having kids. They never fail to break your fucking hearts.
The familiar, corrosive burn of guilt scalds my chest like acid, even more painful because it is familiar.
the truth is there’s no one she’s safer with than me. And not just because she’s Connor’s wife or I’m chained by a promise. It’s because Eden doesn’t want me. From the moment I laid eyes on her five years ago and craved her, she looked past me and only saw Connor.
I think I’ve sent him into shock. That blink is a dead giveaway. For Knox The-Sphinx-Ain’t-Got-Shit-On-Me Gordon, that one tiny tell is the equivalent of me knocking him on his ass.
Sometimes I think Knox was born centuries too late. With his huge, powerful, warrior’s body, razor-sharp intensity, and laconic manner, he could’ve been a Spartan.
While my feelings tend to explode all over the place, splattering everything and everyone like a paintball gun, Knox is a vault,
He’s beautiful in the way of a black leopard—powerful and dangerous, muscles covered in sleekness.
Pain in the palest shade of red tinges the pleasure zinging through me
sex-on-churned-up-earth voice.
And I don’t want his mercy or his tenderness. For the first time in years, someone is treating me like I’m not this fragile figurine that needs to be delicately handled so I won’t shatter.
She laughs in the way that’s strictly hers—a loud, joyous crack that sounds like thunder breaking across the sky. Connor used to say her laughter was God snorting. I’m not anywhere near that damn poetic.
He says while thinking a more poetic line
hardening my body until even breathing threatens to crack me into pieces.
Knox has demons—dark, heavy, unrelenting. Yeah, me, too. Some warped with age and dusty. Others new and hungry.
My old ones, they wear the face of my father. Of my insecurity, shame, and sense of unworthiness that are inheritances from an alcoholic parent to a neglected child. The new ones… Well, they resemble the man behind this locked door. My lust for him is my dirty little secret.
Crazy. Inappropriate. Forbidden.
