She was wet. Slick. Ready.
He groaned, deep and helpless.
She did, too, when he kissed her with determined precision, stealing the air from her lungs and replacing it with his own.
She rose up on tiptoe, fisting one hand in his hair, tugging him close like she never wanted to let go.
He let go. Just a little. Let the reins on his restraint slip just enough to teeter there on the edge. Testing his limits.
And hers.
She didn’t flinch when he deepened the kiss, charting her mouth with long, languid strokes of his tongue. She didn’t pull away when he ground his thigh into her damp heat, holding her hip in one big palm so he could guide her sex in tight little circles.
That keening moan she gave him? Oh, it threatened to undo him.
Mine, growled the part of him that had no patience, manners, or mercy. My woman.
It begged him to lift her, to seat himself inside her, to let all that wetness and softness and warmth swallow him whole before he thrust and thrust and thrust until she clamped around him. Until she spasmed with pleasure. Until she went limp and sated in his arms.
He bridled it just in time. Just before reason was torn to shreds and instinct took over.
She whimpered at the loss when he stepped back.
“I’ll get ya there, sweetheart,” he promised.
Then he yanked back the covers, propped the pillows against the headboard, and sat down.
“C’mere, Sabrina.” He patted his chest in invitation. “Let me hold you. Touch you. Edge ya ’til you scream.”
29
Sabrina didn’t move.
She couldn’t.
Lust had melted her bones. Passion had turned her muscles to mush. The sight of Hew, so long and strong and so very, very naked, had scrambled her brains.
She’d known he would be beautiful. But she’d never imagined the sheer grandeur of so much sun-warmed muscle. Every inch of him was dusted with a golden tan. And his body hair was two shades darker than the hair on his head—a deep, coffee brown.
His nipples were flat brown disks atop the heavy squares of his pectoral muscles. Impossibly broad shoulders tapered down into lean hips. And his thighs were thick and corded with muscle.
There was a rawness to him. It was in the way his scars marked him, visual reminders that he’d lived and fought and bled. It was in the way his dick jutted unabashed from the crux of his thighs, thick and long and looking like it’d been carved in a wilder century.
There was no artifice or polish to him. Just the sheer unapologetic truth of a man built for strength and sex and sin.
He grinned like he knew what the sight of him did to her. Then he grabbed her fingers and pulled her onto the bed with him.
“Face away from me and lean against my chest,” he instructed.
She frowned. She wanted to look at him. Wanted to kiss him and touch him and spread her legs around his hips and?—
Edge ya ’til you scream.
His words echoed through her head, making her blood run thick. Making her sex pound.
She wasn’t an innocent. She knew what edging was, although she’d never experienced it herself. Had never had a lover who’d expressed any interest.
She hadn’t known she had an interest until now. Until Hew.
