Page 142 of Lethal Attraction

He swings his leg over the seat, and I follow, my boots hitting the ground with a soft scuff. The helmet comes off first, and I toss it aside without caring where it lands. My hair tumbles around my shoulders, and Reed’s eyes track the movement, dark and hungry.

I don’t give him time to speak. My palms flatten against his chest, and I shove him backward. His spine hits the concrete wall of the loading bay, and he releases a sharp exhale. Surprise flickers in his expression, then something else—something that makes my stomach flip.

My nails rake down his chest, catching on the fabric of his shirt. “You liked that, didn’t you?.”

His throat bobs. “I didn’t like him looking at you.”

“I know.” I press closer, my hips pinning his. The thick ridge of his cock strains against his jeans, and I roll my hips once in a slow rhythm. His breath stutters as his eyes close. “You liked showing him that I belong to you.”

Reed’s hands come up, but I catch his wrists and pin them to the wall on either side of his head. His eyes widen, pupils blowing so wide the brown is nearly swallowed whole.

“Keep them there,” I whisper.

He nods, a quick, jerky motion.

I drop to my knees. The concrete bites into my skin through the denim, a sharp little shock of pain that grounds me. My fingers work his belt, the buckle clinking in the quiet. I’m shaking with anticipation, every moment quick and unfocused, until I release him.

His cock springs up against his stomach, thick and already slick at the tip. I lean in, letting my breath ghost over the sensitive skin, and he shudders. His hips twitch forward, but I press a hand to his lower belly, holding him still.

“Don’t move.” I order with a small smile.

A low sound catches in his throat—half groan, half whimper. My thighs clench at it in response, as if our bodies are in tune.

I wrap my fingers around the base of him, squeezing hard enough that he gasps. The subtle lighting catches on my initials inked into the base of his cock, and pride swells in my chest. He wears my mark like it’s a badge of honor, and it makes me want to cover him in little doodles.

My tongue flattens against the underside of his shaft, and I drag it up. His whole body goes rigid at the first touch of my muscle on his heated skin. The taste of salt fills my mouth, and I hum, the vibration drawing a strangled curse from his lips.

“You’re so—” he begins.

I pull back. “I said don’t move.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. His hands, still pressed flat against the wall, curl into fists. I watch him fight for control as the tendons in his forearms stand out, and the sight of it makes me ache.

I take him into my mouth abruptly, shoving him to the back of my throat.

The weight of him on my tongue, the stretch of my lips—I sink down until there’s resistance. My throat constricts around him, and Reed makes a sound I’ve never heard before. It’s raw and broken, a reflection of what I’m reducing him to.

“Fuck, Thalia—” he rasps.

I hollow my cheeks and pull back slowly, sucking hard. My tongue traces over every inch of flesh, and his hips buck. I let him this time, let him thrust into my mouth, and the taste of him grows stronger.

My nails rake down his thigh hard, and he hisses. I do it again, this time leaving red, swollen marks in my wake. The hiss turns into a moan, and his cock jumps in my mouth.

Pain.

He’d always been like this, always craved the edge of it, the sting that sharpened pleasure into something almost unbearable. And I’m more than happy to give him exactly what he needs to curve the edge.

I draw back until just the tip rests on my tongue, and then I bite down. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to give him euphoria beyond imagination. The muscles in his stomach tighten, and his head thumps back against the wall. His whole body is trembling now, a fine vibration that I can feel through the hand I still have pressed to his belly.

“Please,” he breathes. “Please, I—”

Please.

That word from his mouth is better than anything I’ve felt all night. I take him deep again, relaxing my throat, and my free hand slides between my own thighs. The pressure of my fingers through my jeans is nowhere near enough, but it’s something to ease the burning ache that’s been building since we got on the bike.

I work him with my mouth and tongue; the wet sounds obscene in the quiet. Reed’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his hips rocking in tiny, helpless movements despite my command. I don’t punish him for it.

Not yet.