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“You’re not the boss of me,” I murmur.
I hate that my body responds to his demand for more—it makes my blood hum. Makes something warm and fuzzy, like a kitten, settle in my chest. I don’t want to feel this way.
But I do.
He makes me feel special.
“Don’t go, this time. Stay with me.” His lips are so close to mine, I’m almost quivering in desperation. I want him. All of him.
Every beautiful, broken, raw part. And I want to give it all in return.
“Please.” His lips whisper over mine.
“Okay.”
His mouth captures mine for one blissful second. One all-consuming, earth-shattering moment. It’s dangerous, I know that. Dangerous to kiss him, not knowing if I’m brave enough to stick around. Dangerous because I know a man like him could break me for good. His intensity intimidates me. His honesty intimidates me.
He’s letting me see past the façade he shows the rest of the world.
I shift so I can straddle him, rocking my hips against him while he drives his hands into my hair. Holding me. Cherishing me. His tongue thrusts into my mouth in time with the grind of his hips, a motion he does so well. I never thought it would be possible to come from kissing, but this is so much like sex. It’s scorching hot and I melt in his arms.
Rowan takes the strap of my singlet top and pulls it down over one shoulder, kissing down my neck in a way that makes me sigh from somewhere deep inside.
“You’re not wearing anything underneath.” His words are like fireworks over my skin, the brush of his lips and scrape of his teeth creating an inferno inside me.
“I’d rather not be wearing anything at all,” I whisper.
He slips the other strap down and exposes my breasts. My nipples are tight, hard. Begging for his attention. My head rolls back as he takes one between his lips, alternating between sucking and flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. His hand palms my other breast, the hypnotic motion making my eyes flutter shut. Thank God, he’s got a grip on me, otherwise I’d slither to the ground like a discarded piece of silk.
My body tenses and aches for him, it responds to his every touch as though he’s been doing it for years. Forever. As though he’d written my instruction manual.
“You taste so good,” he moans between my breasts, nuzzling them and nipping at my sensitive flesh. He looks at me, eyes black with arousal. “There’s somewhere else I want to taste.”
“Yes.” The word hisses out of me like steam.
He lays me down against the couch and I feel like a piece of art on display—for his eyes only. It’s the way he looks at me, the way his gaze hungers for me.
“Spread your legs.” He’s standing over me and I’m exposed. My singlet top is bunched around my middle and I undo the button on my shorts. “Yes, Em. Take everything off.”
I hook my fingers into my underwear and raise my hips so I can slide the fabric down, dragging my shorts down with it. Once it’s all past my knees, he takes over, kneeling in front of me and freeing my legs. He smooths his hands over my thighs, his fingers tracing a line from my knee all the way to my sex. His touch is confident, and he knows what I like.
In a short time, it feels like Rowan has gotten further than most. Closer than most. A gasp escapes me as his hand reaches where I want him, cupping me, his fingers spreading me apart.
I shift, widening my legs farther to allow him to touch me more easily. My body is lit up, my blood hot and sparkling and my pulse thunders in my ears. He presses the heel of his hand against my clit, slowly moving in circles. There’s something almost lazy and decadent about his touch. He’s not a man to be rushed.
“You’re already so wet,” he says, his lips brushing my inner thigh. “I love how turned on you are.”
Only for you.
The words circle in my mind—all the times I’ve faked it for my ex-boyfriends, all the times I’ve tried to feel empowered in bed, all the times I’ve lain there after, wondering what I was doing wrong... None of that happens with him.
I don’t have to try. I just have tobe.
He kisses his way up to my sex, lips and tongue searching me. Testing me. Claiming me.
I thread my fingers through his hair and hold on for dear life while his tongue swirls and darts until my thighs quake. This is how sex is supposed to feel. Natural. Good. Without a worry for how I look, or sound, or perform. He blanks my mind of all that.
Rowan is a master of the slow burn. He sweeps his tongue over me. Lavishing me. Worshiping me. My grip tightens on his hair as I buck against his face, tremors getting stronger.
