Yet he takes another step into me. Those green eyes igniting with feral desire so wild that my heart skips a beat. He’s so close, that the scent of citrus and salt become the very oxygen I breathe. I can practically taste him on my lips, only fueling that need to reach out for him.
“Friendship over.” He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me in.
It starts as a whisper, a gentle brush against my lips seeking permission. Each gentle press is a whisper of words that can only be spoken like this. And I’m still trying to decipher the meaning.
So, I part my lips, allowing him in. He unleashes the predator who’s been caged from this moment for so long.
His mouth captures mine, greeting me with the sweet mint of his taste. His kiss becomes fierce, possessive, wanting. A small moan leaves his throat as our mouths meet.
Letting go of the punching bag, he cradles my face with both hands while my fists ball in his shirt, fighting the urge to rip it off. We stumble back a few steps as his body collides with mine, but it does nothing to stop the talent of his tongue twining with mine.
His hands roam down my body, digging his fingers in my hips as he tugs me closer. While urgent, his hands are meticulous and gentle as they explore my body, like he’s memorized it for this very purpose. As if he can anticipate each of my needs without ever knowing them.
Tyler possessively devours me, making me submit to him. Grabbing my neck, he pushes his tongue with delicate precision, knowing exactly how to navigate my mouth in a way that has my toes curling. Instinctively, I cradle his face, unwilling to let him pull away as a small moan leaves my mouth, eliciting one from him.
He isgoodat this. He knows exactly what he’s doing. I wonder how he could’ve been so nervous when he’s doing all the right things.
Temptation to cross that thin line between us catches fire in my body. The next thing I know, his hands are under my thighs, sweeping me off my feet as I straddle his waist, pressing our chests together.
He carries me to the front desk, setting me down so we can be face to face without removing his mouth from mine once in the process.
A smile plays on my lips when I feel the generous part of him getting hard beneath his sweatpants. Pressing myself harder against him, I tighten my legs around him, making him let out a deep, rattled moan.
“Be careful, Sunny,” he warns. “You like to play games.” He presses kisses along my jaw. “But so do I.”
As he works his way down my neck, I feel an invisible branding on my skin that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to scruboff. Just as his lips almost meet the tender flesh of my scar, he pauses. His eyes fall to the stark pink skin while two fingers gently touch it.
It’s my daily reminder.
My body belonged more to Ryan than it had myself for far too long. Because of that, I’ve only ever been okay with physical touch if I instigated it. I haven’t been okay with a man’s touch like this since. Yet, with Tyler, he’s the only man I feel okay with when he touches me.
He gently places his lips on the scar—the one I can barely bring myself to touch.And I like it. It doesn’t hurt so much with him.
My breath hitches, but it doesn’t stop him from placing a hand around my throat and pulling me back to his lips. I trace the ropes of muscles in his arms, feeling the grooves of scars along them. He catches my wrist, practically ripping it from his forearm.
“Do they hurt you?” I ask. “Do your scars hurt you, too?”
The predator in him is alive, pacing inside his mind as his eyes frantically search mine. All he does is swallow hard, not saying anything as he watches me.
Grabbing the bottom of his shirt, I pull it up over his head, slowly. He doesn’t stop me. Not when more scars are bared across his abdomen and chest. Not when the shirt drops to the floor in a pool of fabric. Not when his beautiful, scarred body is finally bare to me, like it’s his very heart.
His eyes don’t leave mine, searching me for a reaction, like I’ll cower away, scared by them. By him. But I don’t.
My fingers dance along them, noting how different each is. From white, pink, and red—jagged, clean lines, and circles that appear to be cigarette or cigar burns. I trace my finger down a raised, pink scar along his chest. He winces as his head tilts back slightly, but he lets me.
He lets me.
“What do you do when you’re making love to a woman, and she touches these?” I ask, meeting his eyes.
“I don’t make love, Sunny. I fuck.” There is no mirth behind his eyes, no malice wrapped in each word.
“Mmm. And let me guess, you keep them tied up?” That earns me a smile.
“More often than not,” he teases. Removing my hand, I try to hide my own smile. He catches my wrist, stopping me. “It hurts when people touch my scars. Not physically, but my entire fucking being. With you, it doesn’t hurt so much.”
I can understand that.
He presses a gentle kiss to the inside of my palm while watching me. I cradle his face, my thumb strokes the scar that pierces through his lips, and then press my own against them.
