Diana’s POV
From the dresser, he carries me to the bed with his c**k still inside me, my legs locked around his waist, and lays me down on the bed.
He pulls off the mask.
My breath catches because he’s even more beautiful.
“There you are,” I whisper, reaching up and tracing his jaw with my fingers. “You’re beautiful.”
He catches my hand and presses it flat against his chest. Then he pulls his shirt over his head and drops it on the floor and his body is — god. Sculpted and scarred. A bullet wound on his left shoulder, healed silver. A knife scar across his ribs.
The body of a man who has survived things he inflicted on others.
He takes my other hand and presses both my palms to his bare chest. His heartbeat slams against my fingers, fast and hard.
He holds my hands there while he
