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But he never loses control. He never makes mistakes.
“Minka.” Breaking our kiss with a noisy inhalation, he presses his lips to my neck. To my ear. To my jaw. Biting, but gentle, then licking to soothe his nipping teeth, his hips continue their constant strokes as he builds me up and brings me closer to the edge. “I love you,” he groans. “I won’t stop.”
I wish I could trust his word. I wish I could believe he won’t walk away in an hour and go back to ignoring my existence.
Tequila burns through my veins, making me braver for just a moment, so I shove Archer away and feel a mild stab of guilt when he stumbles back and his eyes shutter with hurt. But I’m not rejecting him. I’m changing things up.
Spinning, I press my forearms to the tile wall and the side of my face against my arms, then I peek over my shoulder and meet his eyes.
That’s all the invitation he needs to rush forward, line himself up, and rest his hands on my hips. Then he thrusts in and fills me up until my orgasm dances on the edge of my sanity.
Archer buries his lips in my hair, nipping at my earlobe and sliding his tongue along the tiny heart-shaped tattoo behind my ear. “Minka…”
“Truce.” I squeeze my eyes shut and groan when my release begs for freedom. “For right now,” I pant, “I want a truce.”
Desperation fills the steamy air around us, passion and electricity as our orgasms near, but mingles with the fear that, when this is over, we go back to who we were an hour ago.
“Okay,” he concedes on a shaky breath and a deep thrust. “A truce. For now.”
