I closed my eyes, dragging my cheek against the stubble on Arthur’s face. His skin was scorching, and I felt burned, on fire, incinerated as he took me harder and harder until he stilled, and I felt him release inside me. He roared, and every muscle in his body tensed as he made me his—fully, wholly, finally.
I sucked in breath after breath, my body clamouring for oxygen, for the chance to recover. Arthur’s body sagged against me, pinning me so hard against the wall I knew I’d have scratches from the rough brick of the pit. My hands were still in his hair, tangled and knotted in the midnight strands.
I loved him. I loved Arthur more than life itself. His darkness and his lifestyle meant nothing compared to that. I loved him despite the malice in his soul. I loved him because of it. Not everyone was meant for a life of roses and summer days, all pretty petals and fragrant perfumes. Some were meant for a life of winter and thorns.
It didn’t mean they couldn’t have love.
Arthur kissed up my neck, his tongue darting out to taste the sweat that his fucking had induced. He still held my legs around his waist; his dick was still inside me, twitching and sending aftershocks of pleasure shooting up my spine.
My breathing had calmed by the time his searching lips found my mouth. His glasses were filthy with sweat and blood, and askew, but he still looked perfect to me. Still tasted like heaven as he kissed me until my lips were swollen and sore.
When he pulled away, his blue eyes were glued to mine. I wished I could read his mind. I wished he would tell me what he felt in his heart as he looked at me, unkempt but now his. But I knew not to push him too hard.
We were here. Together. He had let me breach his high, impenetrable walls. I knew it would take time to hammer through the rest. But I wasn’t fazed by the task. I was inspired. To know all of this man. To have him love me and let me see his soul.
It was worth it all.
“You wrecked me long ago,” I said, my voice echoing off the cavernous walls. I pulled Arthur’s glasses from his face. He looked so young without them. The thick black frames were almost his shield, and without them he was bared and vulnerable. I laid a kiss on either side of his eyes as he breathed heavily. Moving my mouth to his ear, I whispered, “It’s my turn to wreck you.”
He tensed. But when his hands flexed on my thighs, I knew he liked what I had said. And it was true. His family members had told me that he loved me, that I had been the only person to hold any claim on his iron heart. But I didn’t just want a claim. I wanted to consume it. I wanted to own it like he owned mine.
I needed his ruination. It was only fair—he already had mine.
Arthur kissed me again, and I could only imagine how we looked, blood and sweat smothered, reeking of sex and sin. I cleaned his glasses on my top, then pushed them back on his face, my lord holding me in his arms.
Without words, he pulled out of me. I gasped at the loss. He placed me on the floor, and my legs shook from exertion. Arthur crouched down and pulled my trousers back up my legs.
I was stunned. He was caring for me. Sweetly. Gently. As if I might break apart at any minute.
When my clothes were in place, he tucked himself back inside his trousers, then turned for the stairs that led out of the pit. Not a single word was spoken. He hadn’t told me he loved me. I didn’t expect him to. I knew this was just the first step for Arthur. New territory that he had never seen or felt before.
He began to walk out of the pit but suddenly stopped dead. His shoulders hunched, then released. I wondered what was wrong. But then he turned, lit a cigarette and inhaled. His head tipped back and he closed his eyes.
He was perfection. Raw, savage, tattooed and scarred perfection. He released the smoke into a cloud of white, then dropped his head and met my eyes. Leaving the cigarette balancing on his bottom lip—a move that I was increasingly finding irresistible—he slowly lifted his hand. It took me a moment to realise he was offering it to me.
He wanted to hold my hand.
Pulse thundering in my neck, I reached out and let his hand engulf mine. His fingers intertwined with mine, gripping them so tightly it bordered on painful. I didn’t care if he broke every finger. He was holding my hand. The simple gesture, for Arthur, was as difficult as moving a mountain. But he was doing it. He was trying.