A real, easy laugh escapes me. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.” He moves around the kitchen with an easy, confident grace, and I just watch him. The sight of this dangerous, powerful man, the Treasurer of the Outsiders, looking so devastatingly normal as he meticulously chops onions, makes my heart do a stupid, painful squeeze. This is what I’ve wanted. This right here.
He’s all focus as he cooks, but he’s never far from me. He walks past me to the spice rack, and his hand “accidentally” grazes my bare thigh in a casual, possessive touch that sends a jolt of heat straight to my core. I do the same, my fingers tracing the ink on his bicep as he reaches for a bowl. He stops, his muscles tensing under my touch. He leans in and kisses me, slow and deep, his mouth warm and familiar. The kiss is lazy, full of the sated, comfortable energy of the morning.
“You’re distracting me,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Am I?” I whisper back, my fingers sliding from his arm to his chest, tracing the hard planes.
“Yeah.” He kisses me again, harder this time, one hand coming up to cup the back of my neck. “Keep doing it.”
After we eat—and I have to admit, his omelets are legendary—a comfortable, lazy quiet settles over us. The day stretches out ahead, a precious, stolen resource, a bubble of peace before the inevitable pop. “Come on,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me into the living room. “We’ve got time.”
He pulls me onto the couch, settling back into the cushions and pulling me with him, so I’m half-sprawled across his lap. He turns on the TV, some mindless sports channel, but he’s not watching it. His attention is on me. His hand, which had been resting on my hip, moves again, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles on my thigh, dangerously close to the hem of my T-shirt.
“You’re comfortable.” His voice is a low rumble.
“Mhmm,” I murmur, my head resting in the crook of his neck.
I can feel the solid, steady beat of his heart under my ear and smell his clean, cedar soap scent. I’m home. Needing to be closer, I shift. I lift my head and kiss the spot on his jaw he missed shaving. He groans, his hand tightening on my hip.
“You keep doing that,” he warns, his voice rough.
“Doing what?” I tease, my lips brushing the skin just below his ear.
“That.” He turns his head, capturing my mouth in a kiss that is anything but lazy. It’s deep, wet, and full of a slow-building, possessive hunger. The memory of last night, of his hands and mouth on my body, crashes back over me, and my pussy gives a heavy, demanding throb.
My breath hitches as I pull back. He’s watching me, his eyes dark with a desire that mirrors my own. I make a decision. I’m not just going to be wanted; I’m going to take.
I slide off his lap and stand up. His eyes follow me, confused. “Where are you going?” I just smile, a slow, predatory grin that I’m learning from him. Putting my hands on his shoulders, I push him back so he’s lying flat on the couch.
“What are you...?” he asks.
Silencing him, I straddle his lap, pinning him. “My turn,” I whisper.
“Fuck, Darla,” he rasps, his eyes black with lust.
I lean down, my mouth hovering inches from his. The air is thick with the scent of him, of our shared breath. “We’ve got all day, East. Let’s not waste it.”
His answer is a low growl, a primal sound that rumbles up from his chest and vibrates straight through me. He doesn’t need to be told twice. In one fluid, powerful motion, he tries to flip me, to take control, but I stop him, my palms flat against his chest, a silent, smiling challenge.
“I said, my turn,” I whisper.
I push him back against the couch cushions, and this time, he lets me, a look of dark, hungry amusement in his eyes. He is ceding control, and the power of it is a heady, intoxicating rush. The thin cotton of my T-shirt rides up, my bare skin flush against the soft fabric of his boxers. His cock is already hard beneath me, a thick, demanding ridge, and I rock my hips, grinding against him. A low, guttural growl rips from his chest. His hands fly to my hips, his grip bruising, but I just laugh, a low, throaty sound.
“You have no idea how long I’ve fantasized about this,” I confess, my voice a husky purr.
“Yeah?” he rasps, his eyes black with lust. “Did you make yourself come imagining my cock inside you, princess?”
“Every single night,” I whisper, the truth a shocking, liberating thing.
I silence whatever he’s about to say next by crawling down his body, my hair brushing against the hard planes of his stomach. I find the waistband of his boxers, my teeth nipping at the elastic before I use my mouth to pull them down, inch by agonizing inch. He lifts his hips, helping me, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.
His thick, hard cock springs free, and my breath catches. He’s beautiful. Perfect. Already slick with pre-cum, the head of it a deep, promising purple. He tastes of pure male need, and I devour him. I take all of him into my mouth, my tongue tracing the velvety head, tasting the clean, salty flavor of him. He smells like soap and pure, undiluted man; I can’t get enough. A low, constant groan rumbles in his chest, his hips moving in a frantic, bucking rhythm against my mouth. His fingers fist in my hair, not to pull me away, but to press me closer, to guide the angle.
I love the sound he makes. That wrecked, guttural sound of a man who is completely, totally undone. I take him deeper, my hand wrapping around the base of his shaft, and I feel his muscles lock, his body preparing to shatter. Just as he’s aboutto come, his hands grip my shoulders, hard. He pulls me up, his voice a wrecked, ragged gasp.
“Stop. Baby, stop,” he chokes out. “Not yet.”
