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His brows draw together. Then his eyes widen. “That motherfucker.” He winces. “Apologies.”
“Who?”
Instead of a reply, he crushes his mouth to mine. The glass shakes in my hand, and he takes it, puts it away without breaking the kiss. God, his taste—like whisky and coffee and something dark and spicy, like pain and anger and sex.
Who needs drinks when you can kiss Riot? He’s heady. Dizzying. He’s mine. I can’t share him. I can’t…
He pushes me back against the plush cushions, pressing his body to mine. Bony hips, muscled thighs, and his ha
rd-on digging into my leg. So easy to get lost in him, in his strength, his beauty, his need.
And I want him. Now more than ever. Since he made love to me, I’ve been dying to feel more, have more. More of him.
He’s like a drug, invading my senses. When I lie in bed at night, he fills my thoughts, and my fantasies. I dream of a man kissing me, and it’s him. I dream of tangled limbs, of a cock filling me up, and it’s him.
Always him. If that isn’t worrying…
He lifts a hand, brushes it over my cheek, strokes hair out of my eyes. “Okay?” he whispers. “This what you want tonight?”
“Yes.” Somehow I wish he didn’t ask, that he’d know, that he can’t help himself and has to take me here and now.
But he can’t. Agency rules, I guess. Having to ask every time. And it’s not as if our history so far suggests he should be anything but careful with me.
I can change that. Show him I’m strong. That I’m a thousand times better than at the beginning. That I really want him, want him to stop holding back and unleash his desire on me.
So I wind my hands in the back of his T-shirt and tug it up, to get it off him. Need to see him naked, feel his skin on mine, trace his ink with my hands and lips.
Maybe this is who I was meant to be, how I’d have been like if that night at the bikers’ club hadn’t happened.
He pulls back, lets me divest him of his T-shirt, and I take a moment to trail my fingertips over the impressive muscles of his chest and the flames burning over his heart, the small brown nubs of his nipples. His eyes close, lashes dipping, and he exhales, his chest falling, then rising with the next breath.
“Pax…”
I smooth my hands down his ribs and then round to his back.
He jerks and sits up, catching my wrists. “Pax, wait.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing, just…” He’s panting now, his eyes a bit wild. “Kiss me.”
My body obeys him automatically. I want everything he offers. He winds my hands around his neck and I arch up to meet his lips with mine. His hard cock nudges between my legs, urgent, and I rock back into him, a hot desire flaring in my core.
His hands are everywhere, lifting my dress, stroking my breasts, torturing my nipples until I think I’ll come just from that, while he kisses me deeply, his tongue twining with mine. I don’t know if I’m more lightheaded from lack of air or need.
I pull back, struggling for breath, and he pushes my dress further up. Raising my arms, I let him take it off. It falls to the floor, and I’m left in my underwear, stretched out on the sofa, his long, hard body bent over me.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful”, he mutters, one hand propped by my head, the other tracing a path down my arm. “Most beautiful girl ever. Can’t say it often enough.”
So why does he sound sad? He’s acting weird again tonight, but different from the other time. Not distant, or cold. The opposite. Too hot, too jittery. On edge.
And very aroused. His hard-on is an iron bar, heavy and thick, burning through his jeans, branding my thigh.
“God, I want you, Pax.” He places hot kisses on my breasts, his hands cupping my ribcage, lifting me off the couch. “Can’t believe how fucking bad I want you.”
“Then have me,” I breathe, my pussy wet and throbbing, clenching on nothing. I lick my lips and tell him what he always tells me. “Do what you want with me.”
He groans, his face twisting as if in pain. “Don’t say such things, Pax.”
