“This,” he grunts, his hips pressing down, making his intention devastatingly clear. “This is how I feel. Every day since I found you.”
My body sings, my legs already wrapping around him.
It’s all the convincing I’ll ever need. To think we’ve only started.
9
Hammer
Her taste is going to set the bar pretty fucking high, not that it matters. There isn’t any competition. She’s all salt and sweetness and pure, undilutedher.
I kiss and lick a path down her throat, over the frantic beat of her pulse, down to the delicate hollow of her collarbone. Every whimper that escapes her lips, every time her small hands clutch at my shirt, is a brand on my soul. I’m on fire for this woman.
I need to feel her skin against mine. Now.
Breaking away just long enough to yank my shirt over my head, I toss it into the shadows of the room. The movement is frantic, and I see it—the flicker of worry in her eyes as her gaze lands on the bandage on my shoulder. The one she gave me. A frown tugs at my mouth, but it’s not for her.
“Don’t,” I growl, the word coming out rougher than I intended. I capture her chin, forcing those wide, guilty eyes to meet mine. “Don’t you ever feel bad about that.”
Her mouth pinches tight, and I know she wants to argue.
The memory of that night, of her wild, feral anger, surges through me. “That’s what caught my attention from the beginning. A woman with a fire in her, willing to fight.” My thumb strokes her jaw. “Haven’t met one like you before. Not ever.”
I need to erase the doubt, replace it with pleasure. My hands move to the small hills of her breasts, cupping their perfect weight. She arches into my touch, a silent plea that nearly undoes me.
Her nipples are a rosy pink, pebbled tight against my palms. I lower my head, my tongue following the constellation of faint freckles that dust her chest, a map of stars I want to navigate forever.
“You got these everywhere?” I murmur against her skin, the question a husky rumble.
But I don’t let her answer. The thought of her telling me, of robbing me of the discovery, is all wrong. I lift my head, my eyes locking with hers. “No. Don’t tell me. I’d rather find them myself.” Sighing with her next laugh, my lips brush her skin. “I’ll have you clutching these blankets every damn day, if you’ll let me.”
My fingers find the button of her jeans, popping it open with impatience. The zipper’s rasp is loud in the quiet room. I push the denim down her hips, and the groan that tears from me is purely animal. “Christ, Destiny. This could be my breakfast every day.”
A breathy laugh escapes her, so unexpected and bright it hits me square in the chest. My cock gives a violent, painful twitch against the confines of my jeans. Fuck. I can’t decide what wrecks me more—the sound of her pleasure or the sound of her joy. They’re both mine. I want to hoard them both.
I pull her jeans the rest of the way off, taking her plain cotton panties with them. And then I just… stop.
I’ve seen my share despite my disinterest. I’m not a saint. But this… this is the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen in my life. Neat and swollen and glistening for me. My mouth actually waters.
Moving down her body, I try to get a closer look without going straight in for a taste.
“This is a first for both of us,” I hear myself say, the words gritty with awe. “Never wanted to taste one so bad in my life.”
I don’t get another word out. Her hands fist in my hair, not gentle, not asking. Pulling. She guides my mouth right where I was desperate to go, and a savage sound of approval rips from my throat as I obey.
Once she realizes how much I enjoy her being demanding, I’m going to be a doomed man.
I lavish her. I feast. I learn the geography of her with my tongue, tracing every fold, finding the tight, desperate little bud at the center of her universe and making it my sole purpose to worship it.
Her hips buck off the bed, her moans turning into a broken, sobbing chant of my name. The taste of her, the scent of her arousal, it’s an addiction I’m forming in real time.
The pressure within my own body is becoming a critical and painful issue. I need friction, some kind of relief.
I lift my hips slightly to undo my belt, and the buckle nicks my knuckle. I fumble with my fly, shoving denim and cotton down just enough to free my aching cock. I wrap a hand around myself, hissing at the contact.
The relief is immediate, but it’s a temporary fix. A dangerous one. Stroking myself while I taste her, while I feel her come apart under my mouth, is a special kind of torture.
I need to be inside her. But not yet. She’s not ready.
