His mouth crashes into mine with the force of a storm, and the winds are too ferocious to fight.
And there's nothing sweet about it this time. It's hard, deep, filthy, and full of everything we can't take back.
His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back as he takes more.
My arms go around his shoulders, gripping him for dear life. I kiss him back, sinking into everything that's Wyatt, and remembering how good it feels to be the object of his insatiable hunger.
He breaks the kiss just enough to challenge, "Still want me to stop?"
I breathe against his lips, "Shut up, Wyatt."
A low growl vibrates in his throat. He moves me backward, pinning me to the peeling wallpaper. Every inch of his thick, demanding hard-on fights his denim, pressing against my stomach. He yanks my hair.
My eyes flutter with borderline dizziness.
His mouth trails down my neck while his fingers unzip my jeans. He mumbles, "You still smell like warm amber, jasmine, and sin, all ready to rope around me forever."
"You still talk in cowboy riddles."
"And you still clench your thighs when I say something dirty."
I smile against his lips, then slip my tongue back into his mouth, fumbling with his shirt.
He reaches behind his neck and tears it off, displaying a bruised abdomen more ripped than it was seven years ago.
I wince, staring at the purple and yellow marks.
He tilts my chin up, forcing my gaze back to his. "Don't worry, sugar. My cock and tongue still work just fine."
I stifle a giggle, feeling giddy and drunk, even though I'm not inebriated.
He nips at my ear and murmurs, "I got extra whipped cream, and I remember how to use it."
Bolts of adrenaline shoot to my core. I squeeze my thighs together.
He grunts, grinning. "I told you." He slides his hand under my jeans and over my panties.
I sharply inhale, my insides quivering, sinking into his familiar—and missed—possessive touch. I press my hand to his chest over his heart. It beats furiously under my fingers, reminding me how broken he left me. So I whisper, "I hate you."
"I know."
"I really do."
"Then punish me," he growls, grinding his erection against me and sliding two fingers past my panties. "Scratch me up. Ride me like you're trying to forget me."
Arching into his hand, I groan and pull his mouth back to mine.
He turns us and moves toward the bed without breaking our kiss. Our boots hit the floor, followed by my shirt, his belt, then my jeans. He peels them off, and his voice comes out slightly angry, stating, "I'm taking my gift back." He pushes me on the bed and kneels between my legs.
Gift?
I tense. "Wyatt?—"
"Don't, Willow," he warns, then glances up, breathless, eyes ablaze. "I remember everything about you. Every sound. Every taste. Every goddamn look you ever gave me in the dark. And then you ripped it all away. But I didn't say you could have it back. So I'm reclaiming it as mine."
I suck in a breath, thighs trembling under his hands.
He leans in, dragging his tongue up my inner thigh. "I'm gonna take my time, so sit back and say some prayers, sugar."
