I laugh into the pillow. “You did remarkably well, for the record.”
“I’m a man of discipline.” He presses a kiss between my shoulder blades. “When properly motivated.”
His hands knead my shoulders, my back, working out tension I didn’t know I was carrying. It’s half massage, half seduction—his fingers digging into my muscles while his mouth traces patterns across my shoulder blades.
“You’re so tense,” he observes.
“I wonder why. Couldn’t be the multiple orgasms or the impending FBI raid or the fact I’m in bed with the most infuriating man I’ve ever met.”
“Infuriating?” He nips at my shoulder blade. “That’s harsh.”
“Infuriatingly sexy,” I amend. “Better?”
“Much.”
His hands move lower, thumbs pressing into the muscles along my spine, and I groan into the pillow. It feels incredible—like he’s unwinding every knot in my body, every bit of stress I’ve been carrying.
“Where did you learn to do this?” I ask.
“Twenty years of riding will wreck your back if you’re not careful.” He works a particularly stubborn knot near my lower spine. “Learned to take care of myself.”
“Lucky me.”
“Lucky both of us.”
His hands reach the curve of my ass, and the massage takes on a decidedly less therapeutic tone. He cups my cheeks, squeezing gently, kneading the flesh with his strong fingers.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “Every inch of you is perfect.”
“Boone, if you don’t fuck me soon, I’m going to?—”
“You’re going to what?” He spreads my legs, settling between them. I feel the rough denim of his jeans against my inner thighs, and I realize with a start he’s still dressed while I’m completely naked. The power imbalance shouldn’t be as hot as it is. “Tell me.”
“I don’t know. Combust. Die. Something dramatic.”
“We can’t have that.” I hear his zipper, the rustle of fabric, and then the hot press of his cock against my ass. “I have plans for you. Can’t have you dying before I execute them.”
“Then execute them already.”
He laughs softly, positioning himself at my entrance. The head of his cock presses against me—teasing, threatening, not quite pushing inside.
“Say please.”
“Are you serious?”
“Say please, Josie.”
I grind my hips back against him, trying to take what I want, but he holds himself just out of reach. The bastard.
“Please,” I grit out.
“Please what?”
“Please fuck me before I murder you.”
“Good enough.”
He pushes inside—slowly, so slowly—and I feel every inch of him stretching me, filling me. This angle is different from earlier. Deeper. More intense. The weight of him presses me into the mattress, and I feel claimed in a way that makes me purr with primitive satisfaction.
