He doesn’t answer. His tongue moves lightly over the cut.It should feel wrong. It should feel humiliating. It should hurt. It feels… warm.A slow heat spreads from the place he touched, climbing up my leg until I’m sure he can see the blush blooming all over my face. My fingers curl into the couch cushion, a pathetic attempt to hold on to something.
He moves his tongue around my foot, and I wince as it heats the painful spots—the raw, red skin from a new pointe shoe, the small, angry cuts from a misstep, the hard, unyielding calluses that I’ve always tried to hide.I should be mortified.Dancer feet are ugly, functional things, not meant for this kind of attention. But the way he’s worshipping them, his tongue tracing every line and imperfection, makes me feel something else entirely.
He starts sucking each toe, one by one, slowly, his mouth hot and wet. I can’t think about anything but his tongue on the rest of me. I notice everything—the veins standing out on his forearms as he holds my leg, the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the rough scrape of his beard stubble against my sensitive skin.
His free hand starts caressing my calf, massaging in slow, deep circles that make my muscles melt and my core tighten. His left knee nudges between my legs, and I’m so lost in sensation I don’t even realize my legs have fallen open for him until he shifts, the angle giving him a perfect view up my dress.
I know he can see it—the white underwear I wore, now damp and translucent, showing him exactly how much he’s affecting me. I down the rest of the drink in one go, the burn of it nothing compared to the fire building inside me, and a soft, helpless moan escapes my lips.
He smirks, his eyes dark and knowing as they flick from my face to my exposed pussy and back again.
“You like how my tongue feels, Sisk?” he growls, the words vibrating against my skin. “Fucking soaked. Can see it right through your panties.”
The kid I knew is definitely gone. This is a man staring me down, and every wall I’ve ever built is turning to dust.
My fingers tangle in my hair, pressing against my own mouth to muffle the sounds trying to escape.
“Want me to stop?” he teases. Instead of waiting for an answer, he lowers his head again, but instead of his tongue, I feel the sharp, teasing pressure of his teeth. He bites down gently on the delicate bone of my ankle, just enough to make me gasp and my toes curl. He holds it then releases, his tongue immediately soothing the small mark with a gentle swirl. “Didn’t think so,” he murmurs against my skin, the vibration making my whole leg tremble.
His tongue drags up my arch, slow as hell, and my back bows right off the couch. “Scotch,” I choke out, the word ripping out of me.
He looks up. “What?”
“More,” I whisper, my voice shot. “Need more scotch.”
He sets my foot down, walks over to the cart, and comes back with the bottle. He doesn’t hand it to me, he twists the cap off and stands over me.
“Open your mouth,” he orders.
My lips part before my brain even processes the command. He tips the bottle, and the smoky burn fills my mouth. It spills,running down my chin, my neck, and before I can wipe it away, he’s on me. His mouth follows the trail, hot tongue on my cool skin, and then he’s kissing me.
This isn’t a kiss. It’s a goddamn assault. Months of bullshit, of missing each other, of wanting this so bad it hurts—all of it exploding right there. His tongue shoves into my mouth, tasting the scotch, tasting me, and I kiss back just as hard, my hands fisting in his hair, yanking him closer. He’s devouring me, and I’m letting him, because right now, nothing else in the world matters.
He pulls back quickly and reaches for the hem of his shirt. He pulls it over his head, and my mouth opens in shock.
Tattoos. A sprawling, chaotic tapestry of ink covering his torso, wrapping around his ribs and spilling onto his shoulders. There’s a chain wrapped over his heart, symbols I don’t recognize, shapes and letters, that look like they’re written in a language I’ve never seen. His body is all angular edges and hard muscle, his abs even more pronounced than I remember. The new ink highlights every inch, a map of the last few months, and a reminder that I wasn’t there. A reminder of how much of a stranger he’s become.
The anger that was simmering under the lust boils over. I shove his chest, hard. “Stop. Get off me.”
He barely moves.
“You can’t just show up after all this time looking like a whole new person,” I spit, my voice shaking with rage. “And expect me to just… fall back in line, like some fucking toy you can pick up whenever you’re bored.”
His smirk vanishes. In a blink, he’s on me, one hand pinning both my wrists above my head against the couch cushions. He leans down, his face inches from mine, his eyes burning with an intensity that almost scares me.
“I’m not asking you to fall in line, Sisk,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “You are doing that on your own.”
“I hate you,” I snarl.
“No, you don’t.” He uses his free hand to grab my chin, forcing me to look at him. “I might look different, but I’m still me, and you are still you.” He grabs my hand and places it flat on his chest, right over that chain tattoo. “This heart still beats faster when you’re around.”
I can’t stop myself. My fingers twitch, then my nails drag, just slightly, down the hard planes of his abdomen. A shiver runs through him, and a jolt of pure, electric power runs through me.
He groans. “You keep doing that,” he says, his voice a husky whisper against my ear, “and I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”
I look at him, really look at him, at the dangerous glint in his eyes. “Maybe I don’t want you to be.”
“I think you’re still into bad guys after all, little rabbit,” he murmurs. He bites my jaw lightly. ”Do you want me to make you forget why you’re mad at me?”
