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A groan escaped Riker’s lips, thick with desire. Pulling away, he sank back onto the couch, an act that was both retreat and advance. His hands gripped my thighs as he positioned my legs over his broad shoulders—his own silent promise of pursuit and capture as he bent down.
The moment Riker’s mouth touched me, electricity surged through my veins, sparking a wildfire that promised to consume everything in its path. He moved with the intensity of a man who knew the topography of desire like the back of his hand.
“Jesus, Riker,” I gasped, the words dissolving into a breathless moan. His tongue was relentless, chasing down every shiver and quake that rippled through my body.
My fingers tangled in his hair, the sensation holding me in the present, even as pleasure threatened to send me spiraling into some undiscovered dimension. Each stroke of his tongue was a whispered secret against my skin, each nip and suck a promise of deeper delights. My laughter from before was long gone, replaced by ragged breaths and the occasional half-formed plea.
“More,” was all I could manage, my voice a stranger to my own ears—throaty, desperate.
Beneath his ministrations, I felt the heat within me building—a slow burn at first, then a blaze that licked at my insides, stoked higher by the magic of his mouth. It was the kind of heat that would have had any sensible supernatural creature running for cover. But not Riker.
“Riker,” I panted, my world narrowing to the feel of his lips, the sweep of his tongue. My senses honed in on the sensations, laser-focused—it was there, so close, and yet just beyond reach as his tongue flickered across my clit.
“Right there,” I urged, surprised by the fervency in my own voice. The heat inside me coiled tighter, a serpent ready to strike, and I braced myself against the couch.
Riker’s fingers slipped into me, a seamless dance with his mouth that sent shockwaves through my already trembling form. “You’re a menace,” I gasped out, half accusation, half endearment, as he moved with a rhythm that was pure sin and magic intertwined.
His touch was a firebrand, igniting sparks that flickered and flared along my nerves. My back arched, seeking more of that delicious friction, while my hands fisted in the cushions of the couch.
“Riker...oh, Dios,” I switched languages without realizing. The heat within me swelled, a crescendo of flames licking at my core, threatening to consume me whole.
“Come for me,” Riker encouraged, his fingers coaxing me.
And then, with a cry, I came apart. The orgasm ripped through me, a tempest that left no part of me untouched. The heat that had been simmering, bubbling, and boiling over within me flashed outward in a supernova of sensation that left me breathless and quivering.
“Damn, Tessa,” Riker breathed out, awe lacing his tone, “you’re full of surprises.”
“Surprises?” I managed a laugh, though it was more of a hiccup of spent energy. “Seems like you knew precisely what you were doing.”
His smile turned wicked as he leaned back to admire the aftermath of our passion—a Tessa-shaped imprint on his couch, glowing with the embers of desire.
As I caught my breath, I was determined to reciprocate.
I never thought I’d find myself with a mouthful of Riker, but life’s full of curveballs—and his particular pitch was hard to resist. He was long and smooth and hard, and oh, god, I was enjoying this.
But as I slid up and down, savoring the taste of him and the moans that vibrated from his throat, an acrid scent cut through the musk of our desire.
Smoke.
“Riker,” I mumbled, my words muffled against his skin.
His eyes snapped open, the hazy pleasure in them replaced by sharp alertness. He looked at me, puzzled for a fraction of a second, then his nose twitched, and his expression turned to one of alarm.
“Fire!” we both blurted out in unison. We scrambled to untangle our limbs and leaped to our feet. The living room curtains had become towering infernos, flames licking their way toward the ceiling with a voracious appetite.
“Mierde,” I cursed. “Your place is trying to turn into a bonfire!”
CHAPTER 13
Riker growled, grabbing a throw blanket from the back of the couch and smothering the flames with more force than seemed necessary for domestic textiles. I snatched up my discarded, already ruined shirt, using it to beat at the smaller licks of fire that had spread to a nearby bookshelf.
The last ember of the fire hissed its final breath as Riker stomped on it, smothering the life out of it. I watched the smoke curl up and fade into nothingness, a bit like my hopes for an uneventful day. With the crisis averted, we turned to the pressing matter at hand—getting dressed. You know, because battling infernos in our skivvies is not exactly standard protocol, even in our line of work.
“Here,” Riker said, handing me a t-shirt that was about ten sizes too big. “You can wear this.”
“King Zayn’s getting cocky, setting fires from a distance now,” I said, pulling on my denim shorts with a yank that might’ve been overkill if not for the adrenaline still zipping through my veins. “Either that or he’s got a twisted sense of humor.”
“Could be another warning shot,” Riker mused, his voice a deep rumble that matched the dark look in his eyes as he buttoned up his shirt. The man could make a Hawaiian shirt look intimidating, which was saying something.
