This one ishunger. This one isheat.
His lips are firm, demanding, and when I gasp against his mouth, he takes advantage, deepening the kiss. His hand tightens in my hair.
My hands find his shirt, fisting in the fabric, pulling him closer, even though we can’t get much closer with the stupid console between us.
He pulls back just enough to mutter, “Fuck this,” before opening his door.
Before I can process what’s happening, he’s around to my side, pulling open my door and reaching for me.
“Come here,” he says, and it’s not a request.
I let him pull me out of the car, and then my back is against the side of it, and he’s crowding into my space, one hand on the car beside my head, the other still tangled in my hair.
“This,” he says roughly, his forehead against mine, “is what happens when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you trust me. Like you want me. Like you’re not afraid of what I am, and marrying me isn’t the worst.”
“I’m not afraid, and that’s still to be determined.”
He chuckles, but his mouth is on mine again, and any response I might have had dissolves.
He kisses like he fights—with precision, control, and devastating effectiveness. His teeth catch my lower lip, and I make a sound I’ve never made before, something between a gasp and a whimper.
He pulls back immediately. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I grab his shirt and pull him back. “Don’t stop.Pleasedon’t stop.”
The please does something to him. I feel it in the way his body goes taut, the way his breathing gets rougher.
“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters against my mouth. “Absolutely fucking kill me.”
His hand slides from my hair down my neck, my shoulder, coming to rest on my waist. Even through the fabric of my dress, I can feel the heat of his palm, the slight pressure of his fingers.
I want those hands everywhere.
The thought should embarrass me. Instead, it makes me arch into him, pressing closer.
He groans. “We need to stop.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re in a driveway. Because if we don’t stop now, I’m going to forget every good intention I have.” He pulls back enough to look at me, and his eyes are nearly black with desire. “I’ll put you in the back of this car and make you come apart until you can’t remember your own name.”
The image that creates—his hands, his mouth, the leather seats—makes my knees actually weak. My pulse flutters.
“And that would be bad because…?” My voice comes out breathy, barely recognizable.
He laughs, but it sounds pained. “Because you deserve better than a quick fuck in a car, lass. We may have met when we were teens, but we don’t have to act like them.”
Now I’m the one giggling through my disappointment.
“You deserve…” He cups my face again, gentle despite the hunger in his eyes. “You deserve everything. Slow, sweet, proper. Not me losing control like some teenager.”
“What if I don’t want slow and sweet?”
His eyes close. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.You really are trying to kill me.”
