It’s a collision, not a kiss. A claiming. She tastes like the ride—wind and heat and something I could get addicted to. Her back hits one of the bikes, and helmets clatter to the floor. I’m lost.My hands find her hips, her shirt, her skin. She gasps, pulls me closer.
A voice in the back of my mind that sounds too much like my father’s whispers that taking what you want without considering consequences is what Blackstone men do. I push it away when she tugs at my jacket, removing it.
For a heartbeat, there’s no past, no family, no Madison, there is only the sound of her and the feel of us. Her hand is on the zipper of my jeans, pulling it down and I’m removing her jacket, sliding a palm under her T-shirt.
Behind us, there is a crash, like a door being slammed. The sound yanks us apart and into reality.
I expect to see Lillianna. Or my brother. What I see is Chase, the orange tabby with the crooked tail. He’d knocked over a stack of paint cans in the corner of the garage, and the little troublemaker is walking in the mess.
I holler his name and clap my hands once. He darts out of the garage, leaving a trail of maroon paw prints on the pavement.
She pushes her hair back, flushed and breathing hard. “That was a sign.” Her gaze tracks the trail of paint. “The universe hitting pause before we make things more complicated.”
“Looks more like a mess to me,” I joke.
She laughs, but there’s tension in it. “So is what we were about to do.”
“True,” I say, though my body disagrees. I run my mouth along her neck, unable to stop myself. “Do you want me to stop? To step away?”
“No.”
Thank fuck. I bite her ear gently, and love the shudder that runs through her. But then she pushes at my shoulder. “But we have to.”
I could convince her otherwise. It wouldn’t take much; desire is written all over her face. And while I’m not a saint, I’m not a deviant. I step back. “Okay.”
She grabs her jacket. “I should go.”
And she does. Her footsteps cross the garage floor, and I watch her go because I'm not going to beg. The door clicks silently shut behind her. I stand there, jeans still open, body still wanting, with nothing left to fight against but myself.
I fall back against the bike and close my eyes, imagining what would have happened if she’d stayed. Her nimble fingers would be sliding down my zipper. My hand moves past the belt she’d undone and into my open jeans. I take myself in hand, groaning as I picture her stroking me, kissing along my neck, working her way down.
“Ivy,” I moan.
A gasp cuts through the silent garage. My eyes fly open to find her standing in the doorway. Her pupils dilate, her breath catches visibly in her throat, and a flush spreads across her cheeks. She doesn’t look away. Instead, her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip as her gaze locks on my hand, my movements. The hunger in her expression is unmistakable, primal, and matched only by the way her shoulders soften, her stance opens—a silent, physical surrender that speaks louder than any words.
She crosses the space between us before I can speak. In front of me, she drops to her knees and takes me in her mouth. And fuck, the sensation is overwhelming, better than any fantasy. She strokes me once before guiding me past her lips, watching my reaction as she pushes herself to take more. The heat in her eyes and her perfect rhythm is damn near enough to make my knees buckle. My hands tangle in her hair as she drives me to the edge far too quickly.
“You have to stop. I’m going to come,” I warn.
She ignores me and, fuck, sucks harder. My balls tighten as my orgasm races up my spine and into her throat. I grate out her name, nearly shouting, and she doesn’t stop until I’m drained.
But I’m not done. I need more of her.
I slide my jeans up over my hips, leaving the button and belt untouched. Lifting her into my arms, I carry her through the loggia. She wraps her legs around my waist, lips never leaving mine as I navigate down the hall.
“Where are we going?” she murmurs against my neck.
“Somewhere private.”
The closest room is the library. I push open the heavy wooden door with my shoulder. The room is dim, evening light filtering through the tall windows. The papers earlier are spread across the antique table. They’re evidence of the family problems I’m supposed to be fixing, not complicating.
Most of them scatter to the floor as I lay Ivy on the table. I don’t care, I’m too busy working toward my own disaster. Ledgers and business projections give way to something far more urgent, far more real.
Stripping off her boots, jeans, and panties, I sit in the closet chair in front of her. “Put your legs on my shoulders,” I command.
A visible shiver moves through her as she complies, her thighs trembling slightly as she drapes them over me. She's bare and open and watching me with those dark eyes, chest rising and falling fast. I don't rush. I let the anticipation build for both of us. Then my hands slide slowly up the outside of her thighs, thumbs tracing the crease where leg meets hip until she makes a soft, impatient sound.
I lower my mouth to her.
