I nodded once.
In a flash, he grabbed the hem of my shirt and whipped it off me. His eyes darkened further as they roamed over my black lace bra, his chest rising and falling faster.
He exhaled and brought his hands to the sides of my neck, then smoothed them down—over my collarbones, my breasts, lingering there before continuing to my stomach, stopping at the waistband of my jeans. Then he traced back up, cupping the lace-covered flesh as his lips found my neck, kissing me senseless.
I tugged at his shirt, and we stripped it off him too.
Like a starving person at a feast, I didn’t know where to touch first—his warm, bare skin, the firm planes of his shoulders and chest, the ridges of his eight or six-pack—I lost count—abs. My palms explored greedily, mapping him.
He kissed me again, deep and consuming, one hand holding me in place, the other covering my breast. When we broke for air, his fingers skimmed my back, finding the clasp of my bra.
He looked at me as if ensuring, again, I was okay with it.
With a flick, he unfastened it, then dragged his hands back to my shoulders, slowly rolling the straps down. My breath came fast, anticipation knotting in my stomach.
Our eyes locked.
Then I let the bra fall away.
For a beat, neither of us moved. Owen’s gaze dropped, his inhale sharp. Then, unable to resist, he smoothed his hands over my stomach and up, cupping my naked breasts in his palms.
My eyes drifted shut.
I felt his breathing as he began kneading me. I heard myself moaning quietly at the way my nipples hardened against his touch.
Then he shifted.
I opened my eyes just as Owen turned with me in his arms, laying me back on the bed with him on top of me, our legs still dangling off the edge.
His eyes met mine, dark and intent.
He kissed me again, deeper, slower, as his hands trailed down my body, his lips following. He placed hot kisses on my neck, then lower, his tongue gliding over my clavicle.
He lifted his head, taking me in beneath him like this, bare and wanting.
Then he dipped his head again, and I nearly cried out at the sensation—his lips closed over my nipple, tongue flicking, sucking. The pleasure shot straight through me, making me arch up, desperateto press myself against him, to feel that hardness again, to grind against it.
I had never wanted anything more.
With one hand, he pushed my breast up to his mouth while the other kneaded my other breast, his touch unhurried but insistent.
I had no idea what I was doing—except raking my fingers over his back, maybe digging in my nails, just trying to pull him closer though there was no space left between us.
Owen moved to my other breast, then traced a slow path down my stomach with his lips. I felt his mouth at my navel, just above the waistband of my jeans. He lifted himself, his fingers brushing my skin as he popped the first button. Then the next. And the next.
He stilled.
I could see the top of his face from this angle, the way his brows lifted just slightly, the flitting unreadable expression crossing his features. And then I knew.
Not only was I wearing the black lace panties that matched my bra—one of only two sets I owned—but he’d seen the tattoo. The flowery infinity symbol inked low on my hip, the one I’d gotten three months ago when I wanted to feel fearless. Daring. Sexy. Everything I hoped I could be one day.
Owen lifted his gaze, locking it onto mine. And then—the secret smile. That slow, knowing curve of his lips.
When the surprise faded, understanding settled in. It was as if he knew. Knew why I had it done.
Still holding my gaze, his smirk deepening, he dragged a finger, just one fingertip back and forth across the tattoo on my hip. The sensation streaked straight down my body like a livewire, as if he was running that finger between my legs, where I felt the lace already soaking wet.
I closed my eyes.
