"Yeah." My voice is rough. "You are."
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The air between us feels charged, electric—the same way it felt last night on the steps, right before I kissed her. Right before I pulled away.
I'm not pulling away this time.
That night, I'm lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when I hear the knock.
Soft. Hesitant. I know who it is before I open the door.
She's standing in the hallway, wearing my t-shirt to sleep in, her hair mussed from the pillow. Her feet are bare. Her legs are bare too—miles of soft skin disappearing under the hem of my shirt, making me wonder what else she isn't wearing underneath. She looks nervous and determined and so fucking beautiful I forget how to breathe.
"I don't want to be alone tonight," she says.
"Fleur—"
"I know what I want." She steps closer. Into my space. Close enough that I can smell her, feel the heat coming off her skin. "I want you."
Something snaps.
All the control I've been holding onto. All the reasons I've been telling myself this is a bad idea. All the walls I've spent fifteen years building.
Gone.
I pull her inside. Kick the door shut behind her. Pin her against it with my body, and then my mouth is on hers, and I stop thinking entirely.
She makes a sound against my lips—surprised, wanting—and her hands fist in my chest, then slide up, palms flat against my skin. She's exploring me—tracing the ridges of muscle, the linesof ink, learning me by touch. Every place her fingers land feels like fire.
I reach for the hem of her shirt—my shirt—and pull it over her head.
Christ.
She's not wearing anything underneath. Nothing at all. Just soft skin and curves that make my mouth water. Full breasts, nipples already tight, a waist I could span with my hands. She's all softness where I'm hard edges, all warmth where I'm cold.
And she's been sleeping like this. In my shirt. In my clubhouse. The thought nearly undoes me.
"You're staring," she whispers.
"Yeah." I can't stop. Can't look away. "I am."
I reach for her. Cup one breast in my palm, feel the weight of it, run my thumb over her nipple. She gasps, arches into my touch, her head falling back against the door. The sound she makes goes straight to my cock.
"Grim—"
"I've been thinking about this." I lower my head, drag my mouth down her throat. "Since I found you on that road. Thinking about what you'd taste like." I close my lips around her nipple, suck gently, and she cries out. "What sounds you'd make."
Her fingers dig into my shoulders. "Please?—"
"Please what?"
"More. I need more."
I give her more.
I drop to my knees in front of her. She's leaning against my door while I kneel at her feet like she's something to be worshipped.
She is.
I press a kiss to her hip. Her stomach. The soft skin of her inner thigh. She's trembling, her hands braced against the door,her breath coming in short gasps. I can smell her arousal—warm, sweet, intoxicating—and it takes every ounce of control I have not to bury my face between her legs immediately.
