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He was so warm. So strong.
His head lowered, the strong curve of his lips whispering over hers, the light rasp of the short beard, so bad boy and roguish, brushing against her flesh.
He was a rogue. A bad boy.
Dawg had been warning her about him for years and she couldn’t seem to make herself stay away from him.
“Don’t,” she whispered as strong teeth tugged at her lower lip. “I won’t be one of your women. You’ll break me if you try to turn me into one.”
She knew he would. She’d realized that during the blizzard, which had seemed to rage inside her soul as well as outside. A freezing, icy wasteland that had never thawed, never warmed without his touch. It was thawing now, though. Weeping, flowing from the needy depths of her body to slicken the bare flesh of her sex and her clenched thighs.
“Will I? Give me your kiss, Lyrica. Let’s see if you break or just melt around me like hot sugar.”
She was already melting.
Her lips parted for him, a moan whispering out as his covered them, his kiss hungry and mind-numbing.
Pleasure ricocheted through her system as languorous need built inside her. Straining toward him, her tongue met his, tasting him. She was drunk on the sensations rioting through her, becoming high on a pleasure she couldn’t resist.
He could be addictive.
He was addictive.
She had hurt for months after he’d held her during that snowstorm. Every cell in her body had ached for him, ached for the release that had been so close, that had teased and tempted only to be taken from her so quickly.
“Graham—” She strained against him, that ache intensifying now, tearing at her senses, heating her body.
Aching.
It hurt.
She needed him that desperately, ached for him that much. How much worse would it be after he had her? After she knew what she was missing, after the pleasure consumed her, burned through her, and left nothing but ash?
Could she bear it?
“No.” She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t let it happen.
“No?” he whispered with wicked eroticism, his free hand gripping her hip, holding her still as the heavy length of his erection pressed into her stomach.
It was far too tempting.
The feel of it made her far too hungry for him.
“Graham,” she protested breathlessly.
Hell no, she didn’t really want him to stop—she simply had no choice.
“I don’t hear a lot of certainty in your tone.” His lips feathered from her jaw to her neck.
The feel of his mouth moving over the sensitive flesh, stroking it, sent a frisson of exquisite pleasure raking across her nerve endings, drawing a startled gasp of surprise from her at the extremity of it.
“You’re just playing with me,” she cried out weakly, even as her head tilted to the side to allow him free rein against the rioting nerve endings pulsing beneath the flesh of her neck. “You know you are, Graham. I won’t be your toy.”
A cry fell from her lips as his free hand pushed beneath the hem of the borrowed shirt, moving unerringly to the swollen curve of her breast. Immediately, one exquisitely hard nipple was caught between his thumb and forefinger, and he rolled it with wicked experience.
“Oh god . . .” Her knees weakened.
Sensation raced from the imprisoned tip to the swollen bud of her clit. Pleasure coursed through the heated nerve endings, sending flash fire strikes of clenching, painful pleasure whipping through her vagina.
