Delilah Dawson - The Damsel and the Daggerman

“Fearless and shameless. What a combination,” he finally said, and she laughed.

“I’m a writer. I’ve lived through hell and imagined worse. You don’t scare me.”

“Even though they call me a murderer?”

She stood in one smooth motion. “Thing is, I don’t think you did it. I’d like to prove everyone wrong. I’m one of the only journalists out there hell-bent on the truth.” She shrugged. “Such is my curse.”

It was the wrong thing to say to him, and she felt the same drop in her gut as if moving a chess piece to a square that would lose her the game. His face closed up, his eyes going dark and fathomless, looking straight through her. “I can’t give you what you want.” It came out ragged, his back to her as he finished with his knives.

She was drawn to him, desperate to mend what she’d torn asunder. Her hand found the small of his back, her fingertips spreading to enjoy the play of hard muscles. “Is the truth so impossible?”

He shuddered and shook her off, rolling up his knives and storming to the stairs of his trailer. He slipped inside and slammed the door in her face without a word, and she felt a flare of anger. It was bad enough to kiss her like that and leave her wanting, but to lock her out was a slap in the face. Even if the truth was his possession, his secret, she was unaccustomed to being treated so rudely. And damned if she wasn’t burdened with a temper. But she wasn’t about to knock or yell or beg. The time for that was past.

Forgetting that he had deadly aim and a history of supposed bloodshed and driven only by her cheated body and her angry heart, she reached into her pocket for her lock picks and had his door open in moments. The lights inside were warm, the room glowing with wallpaper in silver and black stripes. Marco sat on a low sofa, his head in his hands and his shirt half unbuttoned. Furious surprise was written clearly on his face.

“Did you just break into my wagon?”

Her mouth quirked up slowly. “Of course not. The door was open.”

She closed the door silently and leaned back against it, suddenly unsure. What was she doing? She’d never thrown herself at a man—at least, not since Liam. The rest had come running like bludrats scenting a bare foot. She’d simply chosen one from the pack and let things run their course. But this was no pack, just a lone wolf, and the only one that would do. She had come to the caravan for an entertaining story, but now she couldn’t think past her own stupid body and swiftly racing heart. She wanted his secrets even more.

It should have been easy. Seduce him. Take what she needed.

But this was more than she had expected, and she had to tread carefully.

Marco didn’t move, sprawled over his couch as he was with one leg up on a steamer trunk. He was surprised, sure, but still dripping with confidence, with a bone-deep certainty that he was the most dangerous thing in the very small, suddenly rather airless room. She realized that she’d left Brutus outside, slammed the door in the metal dog’s face. Even without the knives glinting up his shirt, she still suspected Marco was well-armed.

“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t break in while I was out and rifle my drawers.”

“There’s always tomorrow.”

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

“What’ll you settle for?”

She took a deep breath. “More time to screw it out of you.”

He snorted, his head rocking back against the couch to show a long, muscled neck already shaded with new beard. “What makes you think I’m interested?”

She raised one eyebrow and cast a damning look at his lap.

He just chuckled. “That’s nothing.”

“Prove it.”

He stood, his footsteps creaking across the wood floors, closer and closer. Even though she had invited the situation—well, forced it—she still felt as if her back was always against a door with him, that there was nowhere left to run as soon as his eyes found her. She pressed her hands against the wood, willing the blood out of her cheeks, the slight hitch out of her breath. He was angry with her, but he was amused, too. She had to hope the amusement would win out.

Marco’s expression was sharp and dark and hungry, and she fought the urge to look away, to look down, to cower in any way.

“Woman, do you know what you’re getting into?”

“I’m a big girl. I always know what I’m getting into.”

One finger, curled under her chin, made her tilt her head back to look up at him. Her lips parted, waiting for him to crash into her, to run his hands down her body with the frenzy she felt inside every time they traded barbs. Instead, he spun her around to face the door and pressed close against her back, hotter than the sun and breathing warmly over her neck. One after the other, he took her hands, pinning them against the door over her head. Her heart sped up, pounding against the door loudly enough that she was sure he could hear it, and with animal grace, she arched her back, feeling the hardness of him even through her bustle and the layers of skirts.

His lips brushed her ear, running down her hairline to the high collar of her dress. She’d never hated fashion so much, never resented the way people in Sangland were forced to cover so much skin just to stay alive. As his mouth skimmed down the curve of her neck, she could feel the heat of his breath through the fabric, and when his teeth found her shoulder, she let out a small moan. One hand still pinned both of hers to the wood, his other hand tight on her hip, moving around to the front, to the sensitive crease just under the hipbone. Through layers of skirts, his hand steadily followed the line of her corset to where it came to a point, right at the crux of her.

“Don’t move your hands,” he whispered in her ear. “Or I stop.”

He released them, and they stayed pinned to the wood, flat, one on top of the other. His right hand traveled with careful, cruel slowness, down her wrist, past the sensitive furrow of her elbow, down her shoulder, still wet with the marks of his teeth. All the while, his left hand rubbed through her skirts, back and forth, hard enough that she could feel it but softly enough that it provided no relief. Over the curve of her ribs, the valley of her corset, the swell of her hip, his right hand traveled with leisurely abandon, never pausing, even when she strained for his touch. When his left hand left off its work, she groaned. But she swallowed the sound when she felt him move back and downward, palms gripping her hips as he knelt behind her.

She almost turned around, but he had burned it into her: don’t move . His hands caressed her ass reverently through the bustle and skirts before running down the outsides of her legs, past her knees, all the way down to the tops of her boots, just above her ankles. Damn. If she’d known he’d get this close, she would have worn the elegant boots with the sharp heels, the ones that laced up to her thighs. His fingers were feather-light as he moved them to the insides of her legs and trailed them upward, skimming over her fashionably ripped stockings. When he found the insides of her knees, they nearly buckled. And as he reached the softness of her thighs, he stood back up, dragging her skirts up with him and exposing her legs to the chill air.

Teeth clenched, she closed her eyes and set her forehead against the cool wood, just under her wrists. She felt with exquisite slowness and anticipation the moment when his hands changed courses under her layers of skirts and petticoats, the left one continuing up the tender inside of her thigh while the right one spread wide and caressed her ass briefly, gently, before curving around to her front, just under the edge of her corset. At the exact same moment, his fingers found the crux of her from either side, and she gasped and whimpered.