Pressure builds between my thighs, rocking me to my core. “You have to understand, lass,” he says, his voice raw, “once I have you, I'm never gonna let you go. You know that, don't you?”
“I'm counting on it,” I whisper.
He notices me trembling, his second hand braced on the bed beside us. He kisses me like I’m precious.And I love it.
It's gentle, proclaiming, and moving all at once. “Bianca. If you tell me to stop?—”
“No.” His jaw clenches, and his silver eyes drop to my lips, darkening.
“I don't know how to be gentle.”
Something snaps in him, and I see it happen—the last thread of his control fraying, breaking, gone. His hand slides into my hair, gripping it tight enough to make me gasp, but he doesn't stop.
Yes,yes.
Excitement boils inside me. I'm shaking with anticipation. His other hand wraps around my waist and yanks me flush against him.
I can feel every inch of hard muscle, coiled violence, barely restrained need. “Last chance,” he growls against my mouth.
I fist my hands in his shirt and draw him impossibly closer until we clash. “Kiss me like you mean it.”
And he does. Oh my fuckinggod, I'm not ready.
He angles my head exactly where he wants it. He takes my mouth like he owns it, like he's been starving for six years and I'm the only thing that can feed him and sate his hunger.
I whimper into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, groaning in response.
My hips grind against his as his tongue sweeps in, demanding entrance. When I open for him, he takes, licking into my mouth like he's mapping me, memorizing the taste of me, as if he wants to consume me whole.
I've been kissed before—chaste pecks with boys who asked permission, who were careful and sometimessweet, but always forgettable. And Marcus… I won’t think of that now.
It doesn't matter, and I don't fucking care because this isn't that. This is… this is being devoured.
My hands slide up his chest because I need to feel the solid muscle and hot skin, his rapid heartbeat beneath my palms, until my hands reach his neck and I can feel his pulse hammering. He's shaking. This massive, scarred, brutal stalker is shaking because he's kissing me.
The power of it makes me dizzy. I kiss him back and bite his lower lip, hear his sharp intake of breath, and run my hands across his skin.
“Fuck,” he whispers against my mouth.
Then he's kissing me again, deeper, rougher, his hand tightening in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat. He knows exactly what he's doing. I am the canvas, and he’s the painter. Every brushstroke is perfection.
His mouth moves to my neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses that make me weak.
“All these years,” he growls against my skin, the Irish in his voice thicker now. “Watching you, wanting you, knowing I couldn't have you.”
His teeth scrape my pulse point, and I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. “And now you're here.” He bites gently, and electricity zaps through me, making my core ache with need.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs. His thumb traces my swollen lower lip. “No idea what I want to do to you.”
I should be terrified. Instead, I'm liquid heat, a racing pulse, and desperate want. “Show me, Ashland.Showme.”
“I don’t want to hurt?—”
I grip his shoulders. “Show me.”
His control shatters. He kisses me again, and this time there's nothing to hold him back. His hands are everywhere—my waist, my hips, sliding down to grip my arse and thighs.
I gasp at the sudden movement, and he uses it to kiss me deeper. I involuntarily grind myself against him, my aching, throbbing pussy dying for contact and friction. He covers my body with his, and when I feel the weight of him, solid and real, the overwhelming presence of him, something inside me cracks open.
