“Good. I like warnings.”
His laugh is dark and rough, swallowed by the next kiss. He lifts me with one arm and stands, making my breath catch, then stops.
“Bedroom?”
“Now you ask?”
“I’m trying,” he says against my throat.
I drag my nails into his shoulders. “Bedroom, gringo. If I have to give orders, I want you earning them.”
His eyes go dark enough to make my pulse trip. “Careful, baby. You start giving orders in there, I might start enjoying obedience.”
“Then obey faster.”
“Damn,” he mutters. “Meanest woman in Miami.”
“Walk.”
He carries me to the bedroom. His hands are under my thighs, his mouth is at my neck, and I am tired of fear owning every place on my body. I want heat there. His mouth there. My choice there.
He sets me on the bed like he wants to be gentle and then kisses me like he forgot how.
My robe comes open. His cut hits the floor. His shirt follows. His gaze drops over me, and there is nothing polite in it. He looks at me like I am every bad decision he ever wanted to make twice, and somehow that feels better than being handled like something breakable.
“Look at you,” he says, voice rough.
I lift my chin, even though my heart is trying to crawl up my throat. “Careful.”
“No.” His eyes drag over my body again, hotter this time. Meaner. “You told me to bring truth. That is the truth. You are bruised and pissed and still the sexiest thing I have ever seen in my fucking life.”
My thighs press together.
He sees it.
Of course he sees it.
“That too,” he says.
“What too?”
“The way you like it when I tell you exactly what I am thinking.”
“Depends what you are thinking.”
“I am thinking I want to put my mouth on every inch of you that still feels like yours and remind it who it belongs to.”
My breath catches.
He freezes.
“Too much?”
“No,” I whisper. “Because you said remind. Not decide.”
His jaw flexes. “You decide. I remind.”
The words hit somewhere deeper than lust.
