He doesn't say anything.
I reach up and cup his face in my hands.
His jaw is rough with stubble, his skin warm beneath my palms.
I feel the muscle tick under my fingers.
Feel the restraint coiling tighter and tighter.
"Tell me to stop," I repeat, softer now.
His control snaps.
One second I'm standing in front of him, and the next I'm being hauled against his chest with a grip that borders on bruising.
His mouth crashes into mine, and it's nothing like I imagined—it's better.
Rougher. Hungrier.
The kiss of a man who's been starving and just realized he's allowed to eat.
I gasp against his lips, and he swallows the sound, his tongue sweeping into my mouth like he's claiming territory.
One hand fists in my hair, angling my head where he wants it.
The other wraps around my waist, pulling me so close I can feel every hard plane of his body pressed against mine.
He kisses like he fights.
No hesitation. No mercy. Complete and total devastation.
I give as good as I get.
My fingers dig into his shoulders—those broad, scarred, beautiful shoulders—and I pull him closer.
Deeper.
I want to crawl inside him.
Want to consume and be consumed.
Want to burn until there's nothing left but ash and satisfaction.
He makes a sound low in his throat—half growl, half groan—and it sends electricity straight down my spine.
His tongue slides against mine, tasting, claiming, and I'm drowning in him.
In the heat of his mouth.
In the strength of his hands.
In the solid wall of muscle pressed against every inch of me.
He walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall.
The impact knocks the breath out of me, but I don't care.
I don't care about anything except his mouth on mine, his hands on my body, and the heat of him surrounding me like a wildfire.
