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“I don’t want that either.” She stares at me, all soft and supple with her luscious lips parted, as if I know what the hell she’s saying, but my head is spinning. Heart pounding with a zeal that is dropping straight to my cock.
I will myself to keep my movements slow, setting my beer down, pushing her album aside, rising to meet her toe-to-toe, and tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. “Better spell it out for me then, Ace.”
She nods, teeth scraping over her bottom lip. “No truce. Sometimes, it all hurts so much that I turn everything off, but then I’m numb, which is the equivalent of death. I don’t want to be a ghost in my own life.”
She focuses on the wine bottle and glass clattering in her shaking hands, so I take them from her, placing them beside my beer. The space between us affords her a breath to collect herself and carry on.
“I like that you make me feel something, Liam. It doesn’t matter what the emotion is. It’s more than I ever feel.”
Jesus, that fucks with my head. On one hand, I want to throw her down and ravage her right here so she can feel a whole lot more than what she’s ever felt. She is absolutely giving off fuck-me vibes—nipples pebbled through the thin silk fabric, chest heaving, tongue licking her lips—and I am so goddamn hungry for a taste of her sweet cunt. Have been for too damn long. On the other hand, I don’t want to screw this up. But I told her I was always me, so that’s who she’ll get.
“You make me feel something too,” I confess, prowling about her, those coffee-colored eyes cataloging my every move. Stepping behind her, I slip my arms around her waist, and my fingers splay over her stomach, grazing the underside of her heavy tits. A chill showers over her when my lips graze her cheek. “A lot of something.”
“Rage?” she asks, her tone far more buoyant now.
I chuckle, breathing in her honeysuckle scent and reveling in her shivering against me. “Sometimes.”
“Irritation?”
Accurate.
“Often,” I admit, and her chest rises so slowly that I know she’s drinking in courage.
She spins in my arms, hands resting on my pecs. “Turned on?”
Her face is so uncharacteristically vulnerable with that question that it catches me off guard. She’s usually so confident and unapologetically flirty.
As I weave my fingers through her hair, my other hand journeys beneath her shorts, cupping her plump ass. No fucking panties.
“Always,” I tell her.
“Good,” she whispers, releasing a small puff of air, more of that vulnerability showing through. “That’s good.”
I brush my lips against hers, lightly tickling, withholding what she’s so clearly craving. My tongue sweeps the seam, and she moans.
“How much wine have you had?” I demand.
“Enough that you’re killing it in the charm department, but not so much that I’ll lose mine.” Her doe eyes widen in the cutest fucking act of convincing. No charm lost there.
Biting away my laugh, I prod a little more. “Drunk on grief?”
“Yes,” she allows, “but what better way to sober it?”
“I’ll accept that.” My nose skims across her jaw, and a soft purr emanates from her as my fingers inch further until I’m rewarded with her arousal. “So fucking wet, baby. Is your pussy weeping like this for me?”
She coils her arms behind my neck, pressing into my embrace and granting me better access everywhere. “For you.”
My slow, restrained approach is withering. “Tell me what you want, Ace,” I growl, yanking on her hair so she winces as her chin tilts up to me. “Say it, goddammit.”
“Fuck me, Liam.”
I swing her up into my arms, curling her legs around my waist, and crash my lips to hers in a single swoop. I need them on every inch of her.
Now.
Yester-fucking-day.
I tear off her flimsy camisole, dump her onto the cushioned daybed, and rip her shorts down her legs. Dragging my hand over my mouth, I halt for a brief beat to soak her in.
