The kiss was urgent, hungry—weeks of tension and unspoken desire finally unraveling between us. I fisted his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more, needing everything. His mouth moved over mine, teasing, tasting, taking, and I met him with the same desperation, opening for him, our tongues tangling, stroking, fueling the fire that had been simmering between us for far too long.
His hands slid from my face, one curling around the nape of my neck, the other gripping my waist, fingers pressing into my skin like he never wanted to let go.
One thing was certain: I didn’t want him to.
I moaned into his mouth as his hands moved lower, gripping my hips, tugging me flush against him. I felt every hard plane of his body, the undeniable evidence of his need pressing into me, and a pulse of heat shot through me.
I needed to feel more.
My hands slid under his shirt, fingertips skimming over his stomach, feeling the tense ridges of muscle, the heat of his skin. I pushed the fabric up, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head.
God.
My breath caught at the sight of him—broad shoulders, chiseled chest. This man had twelve years on me and looked better than men my age. He was beautiful, and he was mine. More importantly, he wanted to be mine.
Weston growled low in his throat as he reached for my T-shirt, pulling it up and over my head in one swift motion. His hands roamed over my bare skin, rough palms skimming over my stomach, up my ribs, making me shiver as he traced the curve of my breasts.
“You’re so damn gorgeous,” he murmured against my lips before his mouth trailed lower, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along my jaw, down my throat.
I tilted my head back, giving him more access, my fingers threading into his hair as he kissed his way across my collarbone. His tongue flicked over the sensitive spot just below my ear, and I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders.
He grinned against my skin, his hands working the clasp of my bra. The second it was free, he pulled it off, tossing it aside before his hands were on me again, mapping every inch of bare skin. His mouth followed, kissing, tasting, until his lips wrapped around one hardened peak, his tongue flicking, teasing, sending a bolt of pleasure straight between my legs.
I arched into him, my head falling back as heat coiled low in my stomach. “Weston ...”
“Say it again,” he rasped, his voice thick with need.
“Weston.” I pulled his mouth back to mine, kissing him deep, hard, pouring every ounce of desire into it.
His hands slid to my jeans, unbuttoning them with practiced ease and pushing them down my hips. I kicked them away, barely aware of the cool air against my heated skin, before his hands were on me again, gripping my thighs, lifting me effortlessly into his arms.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, my arms tightening around his shoulders as he carried me down the hall. His mouth never left mine, kissing me like he was starving for me, like he couldn’t get enough.
He nudged open my bedroom door with his foot and stepped inside, and then we were on the bed, his weight pressing me into the mattress, solid and warm and everything I’d been craving since the night he’d let me use him.
His hands traced down my body, slipping under the last scrap of lace between us, teasing me, making me tremble. I reached between us, pushing at his waistband, needing him bare, needing him now.
He groaned as I freed him, his body hot and hard against my palm. “Jesus, Antonia.”
Then he was kissing me again, swallowing my moans as his fingers teased me, stroked me, knowing exactly how to unravel me.
“I need you,” I gasped against his lips, my body arching, aching. “Please.”
His breath was ragged, his forehead resting against mine as he positioned himself, his hands framing my face, his gaze locking on to mine.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”
Then he pushed inside me, slow and deep, stretching, filling, making me feel every inch of him. My breath caught, my fingers digging into his back, holding on as he moved, setting a rhythm that sent fire licking up my spine.
Weston wasn’t just taking me—he was claiming me, worshiping me with every thrust, every kiss, every whispered word against my skin. And I gave him everything, meeting him stroke for stroke, drowning in him, in us.
We moved together, a desperate, fevered dance, until the pleasure built to a breaking point, crashing over us like a tidal wave, pulling us under.
I clung to him as I shattered, my body trembling, my cries muffled against his shoulder. He followed moments later, a deep groan rumbling in his chest as he buried himself inside me, his body shuddering, his hands gripping me like he never wanted to let go.
And I didn’t want him to.
For a long moment, we lay tangled together, our breaths mingling, our hearts pounding in sync. Weston brushed damp hair from my face, pressing a lingering kiss to my forehead, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back.
