He drags his thumb across my lips, his mouth moving, mumbling something too low for me to hear. “What secrets lie behind these lips, Martinez?”
I’m called Martinez all the time. It’s something my teammates have called me since I started playing hockey, but this? The way he snarls it at me? So. Fucking. Hot.
I bite my bottom lip, stopping whatever stupid as shit thing is right there begging to come out. I’m not putting him off doing anything to me by saying something dumb. And yet, the urge to poke at him is still right there…
He leans closer, dragging his nose up the length of my cheek and into my hair, then closes his eyes like he’s an addict who has just taken a hit of something potent. When his eyes snap open, a wild man stares directly into my soul. His lips twitch. His jaw hardens, and he gives one solitary shake of his head. His hand tightens around my throat. “Fuck it.”
CHAPTER 24
Xavier
Ibarely have time to suck in a breath before his lips crash into mine. It’s not soft, it’s not seeking permission, it’s demanding, overbearing,taking.
This isn’t tender, first-time energy. It’s obsessive, impulsive, hungry. Is the infamous Artemis de la Peña finally losing the control he holds so dear? For a heartbeat, something raw flickers behind his eyes—want. Sharp and reckless—before he swallows it down like poison.
He takes. He devours. He uses my openness, the way I melt against him, as he feasts on me like oxygen. But I give it right back. Because I’m a switchy menace.
Every thrash of his tongue is met by one of mine. Every grope of his firm hand on my body is met by an equally firm squeeze of mine. Our teeth clash as our kiss grows sloppy, hungrier, so messy that if I didn’t know it was him, I’d have laughed at the idea that Artemis could be so… wild.
Heat licks at my spine, making my balls heavy, and all we’ve done is kiss. He cups my neck, tipping my head so he can kiss me deeper. His breath ghosts overmy lips, warm and desperate, like he’s been starving for this longer than he’ll ever admit.
He pulls back from me like the switch of a light has clicked, grumbling something under his breath as he drags me into the living room.
Not taking me upstairs. Noted.
His grip tightens just a fraction too much, like he’s fighting himself harder than he’s fighting me. Disappointment flares in my gut. I had visions of this being an all-night-long, exploring every inch of each other’s bodies kind of deal, but the more I’m in his presence, the more his irritation tells me he wants to purge me from his system.
This is a booty call. A one-and-done sitch.
My lips twitch. This bitch thinks he can fuck me and flee without consequence. It’s okay, I did too before he kissed me against the door and stole every molecule of oxygen from my lungs.
Whatever this is between us is burning hotter, brighter. It’s not dimming, and I know before his dick comes anywhere near my ass thatthatconnection is only going to pour fuel on the fire, not extinguish it.
It’s fine. Let him learn the hard way that he can’t bang his feelings into my ass and leave them behind as he walks away.
Everything about him says he’s going to top me. The way he holds his shoulders, the glint in his eye, the firm set of his jaw, but I pause next to the couch, shunting my pants and boxers to the floor. His breath stutters—barely—but I catch it, the tiniest crack in his command.
“You going to bend over for me, princess?” I keep my face schooled, my tone just a little playful but firm enough for him to know I’m serious.
He snorts, grabs me by the nape of my neck, and thrusts me over the arm of the sofa. Well, fuck me. If this isn’t thesingle hottest experience of my life. His chest brushes my back for a split second, heat searing through my spine before he shoves me down harder, like he’s punishing himself for even wanting to be close.
Who knew his repressed, Dom energy was what my sex life had been missing this whole time?
I can feel how angry he is, probably at himself for wanting this, forneedingthis. I feel it too, the undercurrent of desperation surging in my blood, of being drawn to him like there are magnetic particles flowing in my hemoglobin.
My cock is painfully pressed against the fabric, but I don’t give a shit. I’m all in for this fucking ride. Whatever he wants to give me, I’ll take.
He doesn’t even strip, the sound of a zipper pierces the air, the tearing of a condom wrapper, except it’s a little packet of lube because he kicks my legs apart and squirts it directly on my ass without ceremony.
This guy is mad. It radiates off him in waves, hot enough that my skin tightens like it knows it’s about to be claimed. Part of me wants to fuel his frustration, to make him so fucking angry he splits me in two with his cock. Jesus Christ, yes please.
Another wrapper is torn, time is strung out between us, sizzling, crackling, and hissing with anticipation. I try to peer over back at him. I haven’t even seen his dick yet. His thighs cage mine, heat and muscle and tension, and his breath hits the back of my neck sending waves of goosebumps over my body.
When I rise, my back meets the hard planes of his chest for a split second before he shoves me back down. Hard. He holds me in place while he works the lube between my cheeks and over himself.
“Consent.” He barks the word, the sound breaking the silence like a plastic ruler being snapped in half.
Something nudges my entrance, fingers or cock I have no idea. The smell of his cologne mixed with something inherently Arte imprints on me like a fucking brand. I breathe him in without meaning to, and it hits low and hard, a punch of closeness he’d never allow if he noticed.
