Page 94 of Wicked Heat

For a woman so soft, she had her sharp edges, and damned if she hadn’t used that blade to cut through all his bullshit. All his fears. His regrets. She’d taken it all down to that warm and gooey center.

Need.

Desire.

Bree Bernstein had stolen his heart months ago.

Use her, she’d said?

Oh, yes, he would use her. He’d own her. He’d claim her. He’d break them both into a thousand pieces only to come back together stronger than ever.

He would make her his own, all the while knowing that he was already hers, and that she craved their connection—body and soul—as much as he did.

That was the real crux of it, wasn’t it? They’d both proclaimed to be loners, and maybe they were. But only with the rest of the world. The truth was, neither one of them had ever been alone. They’d always had each other.

It had just taken a significant chunk of both their lifetimes to find that out.

“Yes,” he whispered, grabbing her upper arms and pulling her to him. He kissed her long and deep, then pushed her back onto the mattress so that she looked up at him, laughing.

She was back in that dress again—they really should get her a new outfit, but he’d become attached to that wicked, wonderful dress. “Take it off,” he ordered, then watched in awe as she tugged it down and shimmied out of it, leaving her naked on the spread.

“You’re beautiful.” The words were more than a whisper. They were a prayer. And she was the altar at which he would worship.

She rolled over onto her hands and knees, then crawled across the mattress toward him. “I’m nowhere near as pretty as you are.”

He laughed. “Okay. I’ll give you that one.”

“Hey!” She grabbed one of the throw pillows and tossed it at him. He ducked, and when she grabbed another and started to throw, he caught her wrist instead. Then he tugged her toward him until she was naked on her knees, and he slid off the bed to stand in front of her.

“I like that,” he said, then slowly traced a fingertip over her perfect skin. Gliding over hips, breasts. Watching the little shivers. The way her nipples puckered. The cadence of her breath. The tempo of her heart.

He cupped her neck with one hand and met her eyes, almost done in by the heat he saw there. A need that seemed to rival his own.

Then he slid his hand down to cup her between her legs. She gasped and started to close her eyes.

“No. Keep them open. Look at me.”

She bit her lip, but she didn’t argue, and as his fingers played with her slick core—as he thrust his fingers deep inside her—she kept her eyes fixed on his. Eyes that went dark with longing.

Eyes that seemed to see all the way into his soul.

And when he felt her core tighten around his fingers and her body shake, he saw wild pleasure and a greedy desire fill those eyes.

He knew it was desire for him.

Roughly, he pushed her back so that she fell against the mattress. Then he straddled her naked body, still fully dressed himself.

He held himself over her, his cock straining at his clothes as he teased kisses down her body.

He loved the taste of her. The soft noises she made. The feel of her skin against his lips. She was so wet. So needy.

And he was so hard. So wanting.

He could have kissed her for hours, but then she whispered his name. And that was his undoing.

He had to have her. Had to claim her and make her his own. And as she begged, he fumbled for his fly, then thrust inside her, already knowing she was wet and ready.

She made such wonderful sounds as he fucked her. The way she cried for more. The way she screamed his name when he took her to that precipice. That cliff where pleasure is so potent it borders on pain.