He freezes for one heartbeat. Then his hand clamps on the back of my neck and he kisses me back like he's drowning andI'm air. Not gentle. Not sweet. Hungry and desperate and dark with want.
When he pulls back, his eyes are storm-dark and dangerous.
"This is a bad idea," he says, voice rough.
"I know."
"We might not make it to tomorrow."
"I know that too."
His jaw clenches. I watch him wrestle with it: whatever code he lives by warring with the raw need I can see burning in his eyes.
"Fuck it."
He stands, hauling me up with him, and backs me against the wall hard enough that the impact steals my breath. His mouth crashes down on mine and this time there's no hesitation. No holding back. He kisses me like he's claiming something, his hands already working at my jacket, stripping it off with brutal efficiency.
My shirt follows. Then my bra. His mouth moves to my throat, teeth scraping, and I gasp. He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.
"Quiet," he murmurs. "Or I stop."
I nod, and his mouth returns to my skin. He kisses down my collarbone, the swell of my breasts. When he takes my nipple between his teeth, I bite my lip to keep from crying out. He works the sensitive flesh with his tongue, sucking hard enough to make my knees weak, before moving to give the other the same treatment.
Then he drops to his knees.
My jeans hit the floor. My panties. He spreads my thighs with rough hands and just looks at me for a moment, exposed and wanting and completely at his mercy.
"Stephan."
"I've wanted to taste you since the first time you climbed on my bike." His breath ghosts over my sensitive flesh.
Then his mouth is on me and coherent thought dissolves.
The first stroke of his tongue makes my knees buckle. He holds me up with one arm wrapped around my thigh, the other hand gripping my hip, pinning me in place. I try to move, to grind against his face, but he tightens his grip. A warning. I'm not in control here.
He works me with his mouth—long, slow licks that make me tremble, then focused attention on my clit that has me biting my hand to stay quiet. Just when I think I can't take anymore, he slides two fingers inside me, curling them perfectly.
I'm close. So close. My hands fist in his hair and I feel the pressure building, tightening—
He stops.
Pulls back completely, leaving me trembling and empty and desperate. When I look down, his expression is dark with satisfaction.
"Not yet."
"Please!"
"I decide when you come." His fingers slide back inside me, pumping slowly. "Right now I want to see how much you can take."
He builds me up again. His mouth on my clit, his fingers working inside me, bringing me right to the edge. Then he stops. Again. My thighs are shaking. Tears of frustration sliding down my cheeks. I'm begging without words, my body pleading for release.
"That's better." His voice is rough with satisfaction. "Now you're ready."
His mouth returns to my clit, sucking hard while his fingers curl inside me, and this time he doesn't stop. The orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave and I have to bite down onmy own hand to keep from screaming. He works me through it, licking up everything I give him, until I'm boneless and gasping.
Before I can catch my breath, he's standing, stripping off his shirt. The lantern light catches on the ink covering his arms, his chest. The scars that tell stories he'll never share. When he shoves his jeans down, his cock springs free—thick and hard and intimidating.
He moves me to the floor with hands that brook no argument. I settle onto our discarded clothes and he follows, covering my body with his. I feel the weight of him, the heat, the hard length of his cock pressing against my entrance.
