“Is this enough for you?” My words come out husky, breathless, but my heart pounds a rhythm that has never felt more alive. “Or do you need to hear me say it?”
I pause, licking my lips, and watching his gaze follow the motion.
“This is me begging for your cock, Wilder,” I breathe out.
The sight of him towering above me, his silver chain hanging overtop an oversized tee, these cotton shorts that have his muscled thighs exposed at my eyeline, the tattoos there begging me to trace them with my tongue, I’m wet in an instant.
I’ve never seen something sluttier on a man, and I let my want show through for once. Eyes wide on his, my tongue traces my lower lip deliberately, until he lets out a growl.
“Fucking Christ, Lexi. Get up here.”
Lunging forward, one giant, rough hand wraps behind my skull and pulls, lifting me up back onto my feet and he crushes my body into his.
The door closes, but I’m not sure how because all I can see, smell, feel, is Wilder. He overtakes all of my senses as he presses me up against the back of the door, consuming me with his overpowering presence, his massive form, the way he absorbs all the air in the room and sucks it from my lungs with his nearness.
His head dips to my neck, lips tracing my collarbone with the faintest of pressure that makes me gasp. “About time,” he breathes into my neck before his lips press into me urgently.
His teeth nip at my collarbone, tweaking the skin in a manner that’s anything but gentle as he moves down, into the deep V of the stiff poplin shirt I’m wearing, with puffy short sleeves that just seem to be in his way right now.
Wilder uses his teeth to yank the fabric off one shoulder, pulling a complaint from me.
“Don’t rip it,” I gasp out.
“Don’t start,” he bites out, then peels down the other sleeve with his mouth. “You made me wait long enough. I’ll do what I fucking want tonight.”
Tingles rush through my center, dipping down for my core, and a swarm of heat follows that begs for attention. Throwing my head back against the door, I moan as he continues his torture.
With both sleeves pulled down, the entire top of my chest is exposed, shirt only covering from about my nipples down. Wilder pulls his head back just enough to take in the sight before pressing his lower body flush against mine, trapping me against the door with the pressure of his large, muscled body.
But it’s the extra hardness there that has me moaning. Something that feels long and impossibly thick that nudges my stomach as he brings his head back down, tongue out, tracing all the flesh he just exposed.
Licking a path from my neck down in between my breasts, he swirls his tongue over the swell of one breast, then the other.
“Missed these,” he says against the skin, then takes it between his teeth and bites for seconds that seem endless.
The way his onyx eyes go molten at the sight of it—like liquid black diamonds, flickering with something new in the low light—confirms my theory.
“Are you marking me?” I ask, breathless, motionless with the way he’s holding me in place, but desperate to get to participate. My hips rock impatiently, mindlessly.
“Making sure you can’t pretend this never happened,” he murmurs against the other breast, and then his mouth is closing around the globe of it that’s exposed, teeth pressing into me so hard I yelp.
He smirks at the sound. “You’re going to see just what I did to you, no matter how hard you try to pretend tonight didn’t happen.”
They’re simple words, but they make my stomach dip. Not just his filthy undertones, that raspy growl that’s in every single word he spews when he’s this turned on, but it’s how well he knows me. It’s unsettling. He’s observed me so much closer than I’ve given him credit for.
While he’s distracted, using his tongue to memorize the exact curve and dip of each breast—using so much pressure he manages to pop one nipple out—I pry one arm free from his hold and yank on his drawstring shorts. I need what’s inside them.
His mouth doesn’t abandon its mission, but his hands come back down to pin mine in place once again and hetsksagainst my skin.
He takes his time, worshipping the bare skin beneath his mouth as I whimper at the unfairness.
Next time he pulls back, he speaks. “You really think you’ve earned my cock already,bella?”
That bossy tone shouldn’t be turning me on, but the slickness between my thighs is hard to excuse away. Not sure I’ve met someone who’s more dominant than me in most situations, but my memory is quick to come up empty when I try to recall if I’ve ever been with a partner who managed to dominate me in the bedroom.
Might be my size, my brashness, but I’ve intimated almost every guy I’ve hooked up with.
Wilder?
