4
JOSIE
Iwas on fire.
His hands were everywhere—my waist, my ribs, my breasts. His mouth traced a path down my neck that made my knees buckle. If he hadn’t had me pinned against the wall, I would have slid straight to the floor.
“Roarke.”
His name came out as a gasp. I didn’t even know what I was asking for. More. Everything. Whatever he’d give me.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his gray eyes dark with want. “We should stop.”
“No.”
“Josie—”
“You said you wouldn’t take me to bed.” I reached up and fisted my hand in his shirt, pulling him closer. “We’re not in a bed.”
Something shifted in his expression. A war between restraint and desire, playing out right in front of me. I watched him fight it—watched him lose.
“Fuck,” he muttered, and then his mouth was on mine again.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing, his hands gripping my thighs as my legs wrapped around his waist. I could feel him hard against me, and the knowledge that I’d done that to him—quiet, guarded Roarke—sent a thrill through my entire body.
He carried me to the couch and laid me down on the worn leather, his body covering mine. The weight of him felt like safety and danger all at once.
“Last chance,” he said against my lips. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
I pulled back to meet his eyes. This man who rescued dogs and built furniture and offered his spare room to a stranger. This man who said he liked my voice when everyone else had told me to quiet down.
“Don’t stop,” I whispered. “Please don’t stop.”
His mouth claimed mine again, slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing every shape and taste. One hand slid under my sweater, rough fingers dragging over my bare skin until he cupped my breast through my bra, thumb brushing the hardened peak until I arched with a broken sound.
Roarke pulled back just far enough to grip the hem of my sweater. He peeled it over my head in one smooth motion, taking my bra with it in a quick, practiced tug—hooks already loosened somehow in the commotion. Cool air hit my flushed, bare breasts and then his heat was back—mouth closing over one nipple, tongue flicking, then sucking hard enough that pleasure arrowed straight between my legs. My hips jerked up instinctively, seeking friction.
He groaned against my breast. “You’re so fucking sensitive.”
The words vibrated through me. I threaded my fingers into his hair, holding him there while his other hand worked the button of my jeans open. The zipper came down with agonizing slowness, the sound obscene in the quiet room.
And then he rose and moved to my feet. Roarke lifted one ankle gently, his large hand wrapping around it like it was something precious. He tugged the shoe off—first one, then the other—with careful, unhurried movements. The soft thuds as they hit the floor felt louder than they should have. My pulse thundered in my ears.
He peeled off my socks next, rolling them down slowly, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin behind my knees as he went. Bare feet now, toes curling against the cool leather. He kissed each instep, a soft open-mouthed press that made me shiver, before setting my feet back down.
Only then did he return his attention to my jeans. He hooked his fingers into the waistband—and the thin lace of my panties beneath—and tugged both down together in one smooth, deliberate motion.
The denim dragged over my hips, catching briefly at the fullest part before sliding free. Cool air kissed the newly bared skin of my thighs, the damp heat between my legs. He pulled the jeans and panties the rest of the way off, easing them over my calves, past my ankles, until they joined my shoes and socks in a careless pile on the floor.
I was completely naked now.
He stayed crouched there for a long moment, eyes raking over me—slow, reverent, hungry. From the curve of my bare breasts still flushed and glistening from his mouth, down the dip of my waist, over the soft swell of my hips, to the area between my thighs where I was already glistening for him. Heat crawled up my chest and into my face.
I started to cross my arms over my breasts, suddenly self-conscious of every imperfection, but Roarke caught my wrists gently. He pinned them beside my head again, leaning down so his mouth hovered just above mine.
“Don’t hide,” he said, voice gravel-rough and low. “I want to see you. All of you. Every fucking inch.”
The raw want in his eyes stole my breath. I swallowed hard. Nodded once.
