Page 230 of Chameleon Killer

“Mallory…”

“Shh,” I whispered, guiding him back to me. “No more talking.”

He entered me in one slow, deep thrust, and we both stilled. The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect, stretching fullness that was both a relief and an agony. I’d wanted this for so long, dreamed of it, fantasized about it, and the reality was so much better than anything my imagination had conjured. He felt like he was made for me, and I for him.

He started to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that stole my breath. I met him thrust for thrust, my nails digging into his shoulders, my head thrown back. This wasn’t just sex.

This was a conversation.

Every movement, every gasp, every touch was an answer to a question we’d been asking each other for months.

Yes. I want you. I need you. I’m yours.

The pressure built, a tight, coiling heat in my belly. I could feel him getting closer, too, his movements becoming more erratic, his breathing harsher in my ear.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained.

I forced my eyes open, meeting his gaze. The intensity I saw there, the raw, unguarded emotion, was my undoing. The coil inside me snapped, and I came apart with a cry that was half his name, half a sob. He followed me over the edge with a hoarse shout, his body shuddering against mine.

We lay tangled together on the sofa, a sweaty, breathless mess, as the city continued to wake up around us. I could hear the distant wail of a siren, the rumble of a garbage truck, the morning birds. Normal life. It still felt far away, but this time, it didn’t matter. I was right where I was supposed to be.

Flint shifted, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at me. He brushed a stray strand of hair from my cheek, his touch infinitely tender.

“So,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “We did that.”

“Yep,” I said with a laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and happy inside me. I made a motion of erasing some imaginary line. “We obliterated it.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, his gaze softening. “We really did.”

He leaned down and kissed me, a soft, sweet kiss that held none of the frantic desperation of before, but all of the promise. And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that this was only the beginning.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were our mingled breathing. Flint was a warm, heavy weight on top of me, his heartbeat a steady, reassuring thump against my ribs. I could have stayed there forever, wrapped in his arms, the scent of us—sex and sweat and Flint—filling my senses.

But Flint, it seemed, had other ideas. He pushed himself up, his muscles flexing in the pale morning light, and the loss of his heat made me shiver. He gave me a crooked, boyish grin that did funny things to my stomach. "Don't move," he said, his voice a low rumble.

He rose, his body lean and powerful, and I watched him walk toward the small bathroom tucked away near the kitchen. He moved with an easy confidence I’d always admired, but now, seeing him naked, seeing the play of muscle and bone beneath his skin, it was something more. It was primal. It was mine. He dealt with the condom, and when he came back out, he already seemed to be half-hard again, the jut of his cock rather pretty where it tapped against his thigh.

He didn't give me a chance to do more than admire the view. He leaned down, scooped me up as if I weighed nothing, and tossed me over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. I let out a surprised yelp, which turned into a laugh as his hand came down in a sharp, playful smack on my bare ass.

"Flint!" I gasped, wriggling.

"Behave," he growled, but his tone was full of amusement. He rubbed his stubbled cheek against my hip and the rasp of it just added another sensuous layer to the way he moved.

He carried me into the bedroom, his hand stroking the curve of my bottom, his touch proprietary and possessive in a way that made my blood heat all over again. He dumped me unceremoniously onto his bed, and I bounced once, landing in a tangle of limbs.

He was on me in a second, but not to enter me. Instead, he settled beside me, his eyes roaming over my body with a hungry, appreciative gaze that made me feel like the most desirable woman on the planet. He propped his head up on one hand, his other hand tracing a slow, deliberate path from my collarbone down to my navel.

"I've wanted to do this for so long," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over my ribs. "To just… look."

My breath hitched as his thumb brushed the underside of my breast. "You could have," I whispered.

"No," he said, his gaze meeting mine. "I couldn't."

I understood. We hadn't been ready. Or when I had been, he wasn’t. I suspected, perhaps, that when he’d thought of it, I’d been too tied up in other things.

But now, we were here and we were on the same page even if my hair was a damp mess spilled all over his pillows. My cheeks flushed, there was heat there not just from my own emotions but from the burn left behind with his kisses.

I licked my lips, adoring the taste of him.