I drag her closer with my right hand still tangled in the soft hair at her nape.
I need her.
I think I’ve needed this woman even before she had the misfortune of walking into my club those weeks ago. Christ, I needed her even before I heard the name Daniel Hathaway and set out to claim some overdue payback. I just didn’t know how much I’d need her, need this, until I met her.
I let go of her neck and bring my hand around to the front of her. She’s free to move away, free to leave, and some desperate part of me hopes like hell she will. Instead, she moans against my questing mouth and I am lost.
Her sweet summer dress is already half-opened in front. Her breasts are bare beneath it, her nipples peaked and hard as pebbles under my palm as I run my trembling hand over one, then the other, caressing another moan out of her parted lips.
She’s hot against me, her breath deep and rapid, her heart galloping at a pace to match my own. Her soft belly contracts as I skim my fingers downward. Her skin is impossibly soft, as warm and smooth as velvet under my rough fingertips.
Without breaking the contact of our mouths, I let my touch drift lower, down into the trimmed, silky curls of her sex. The fact that she’s not shaved bare as a baby or waxed into the mere suggestion of a grown woman had made me hard as granite when I first watched her strip for me in my study back in the city. Now, with her body arching against me and the sweet, earthy scent of her arousal swamping my senses, I am beyond erect.
My cock throbs with hunger for her.
Everything male in me is gnashing with the need to taste her. To take her.
She gasps into my mouth as I cup her pussy in my palm and give the tender flesh a possessive caress. She’s drenched and hot, searing my fingertips as I delve into the wet seam of her sex. I push inside, groaning at the snug fit of her around my finger.
She moves with me, not fighting the invasion as I explore her tightness. She melts into my palm, her juices searing my skin. I can’t resist seeking out the swollen bud of her clit. With one finger inside her, my thumb caresses the taut pearl until her breath pants into my mouth as I kiss her and a climax shudders through her.
“Oh, God,” she whispers brokenly around my fevered kisses.
My curse is guttural, a strangled noise. It’s all I can manage when every cell in my body is ablaze with the need to get my aching cock inside her. “Christ, Melanie. I want to fuck you so bad.”
If her breathless moan in response is meant to be a denial, my lust-fogged brain isn’t getting the message.
One hand on her isn’t enough. Not when the animal in me is gnashing with the impulse to throw her over my shoulder and drag her off to my lair.
The half-empty bottle of whisky feels like it’s made of lead as I lift it toward the nearby countertop without interrupting our kiss. My hand shakes with the effort. I should recognize the odd sensation in my fingers by now. In some dim, desire-choked corner of my mind, I feel the tremor.
At the same time, my grip on the bottle falters.
Fuck.
I grab Melanie and swing her out of the way about a second before it hits the floor.
Glass shatters around her bare feet, glittering shards and spilled whisky flying everywhere. She lets out a small yelp, but it’s barely audible next to my furious bellow.
“Don’t move,” I snap at her when she starts to step away from some of the mess I’ve made.
“It’s okay,” she says, her voice a soft rasp after I’ve plundered her mouth and body for the past five minutes. “Let me help you clean this up.”
Another snarl rips out of me. “Damn it, I said don’t move!”
She freezes, staring at me in confusion. That look of wariness is back again, along with something else, as she watches me hunker down and begin sweeping the largest of the shattered pieces away with my bare hands.
There’s no hiding the shakiness of my fingers, even if my explosive rage might mask the tremors as something other than evidence of the neurological flaw I know them to be.
I bite off another hard curse under my breath and tear my gaze away from hers.
I hear her shallow inhalation as she continues to watch me. “Jared . . .”
“We’re done here.” My reply is short, dismissive.
It has to be. Another moment of her tender scrutiny—of her undeserved kindness and concern—and I’m going to put my fucking fist through a wall.
“Today’s session is over,” I tell her gruffly, keeping my fury aimed at the floor. “Once I clean this shit up, I’ll arrange for your return to the city.”
