Need isn’t the word for it.It’s what he said to me that night, when I was ready to let him have me at the edge of a dark road, handcuffed, at his mercy. It’s a sentiment I understand. Need is not the fucking word to describe what I’m feeling right now.
A necessity. A requirement. A fucking craving so strong I don’t want to go another minute with this T-shirt separating me from his perfect, chiseled chest.
I reel back and rip off the shirt.
Decker freezes, dark, hungry eyes snapping to my tits, throat bobbing. But instead of putting his mouth where I want him to, his fucking teeth and hands and lips, he jumps back.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
Though his eyes remain trained on my chest, a long, irritated breath falls from his mouth. “You’re drunk.”
“I… so?”
“And I’m not.”
Mouth hanging open, I look down at my body—my mostly naked body. Purple lace thong. Nipples hard. Legs open. If he were to put his hand between my thighs right now, it would come out soaked. I’m ready for the taking here. Is he fucking serious? “You… need alcohol to fuck me?”
He laughs, the sound a little bitter. “No, Grace. I mean I’m sober. And you’re drunk. I’m not that big of an asshole. Much as I want to be.”
“Decker,” I breathe. “Please. By all means, be an asshole.” I jump off the counter and step towards him, but before my bare breasts can brush his chest, he matches my movement with a step back.
“You’re… serious?”
“Yeah,” he says, voice strained as he scrubs his hand over his face. “Yeah. Yes. I’m serious. Yes.”
“Say it one more time and I’ll believe you.”
“I’m gonna go to bed. Or… shower, maybe.”
“Linc.” The single syllable is almost a plea. A necessity. A requirement. A fucking craving. I need Lincoln Decker’s hands on me. Right fucking now “It’s fine. Okay? For real.”
A half smile curves up his face. “Tell you what, Gracie. You wake up tomorrow morning and you’re still begging for it, I’ll be happy to give you whatever you ask for.”
“I’m notbeggingfor anything.”
Smile growing, he cocks his head, those eyes once again sliding over my skin, leaving lines of heat in their wake. “I bet I could make you, though. Couldn’t I?” When I don’t respond, because god, yes, he definitely could, he says, “Sweet dreams, Gracie.”
He disappears. And I’m left in his kitchen alone. Tits out. And very fucking horny.
Fuck. Tequila.
16
Grace is halfnaked and sleeping on my couch. Blanket kicked off, legs bare, my T-shirt pulled up past her waist. Lacy purple thong on full display. Then there’s the tattoo. Black lines curl up her skin from mid-thigh to her waistline. Flowers and vines mostly, with a long snake nestled deep in the foliage, following the curve of her ass, acting as a perfect guide, drawing my focus to the boundary of her body. An ode to her family, maybe. The Sinner snake.
Fuck. I want to trace my tongue all over those lines, sink my teeth into that perfect, round ass of hers, taste every goddamn inch of her skin, every petal, every leaf, every scale. Bite and lick and suck until I’ve gotten my fill of her.
I haven’t had enough of Grace. I haven’t touched her enough. And fuck, do I need to.
Last night, I almost let it happen. She was topless, those perfect tits tempting me, nipples begging me to tug on them with my teeth. I walked away.
Why. The fuck. Did I walk away?
I barely fucking survived it. Barely slept because I couldn’t stop thinking about dragging her into my bed and fucking her brains out.
And now she’s on my couch. In a fucking thong.
She stirs, yawns. Stretches slowly, languidly. The shirt pulls a little higher as she reaches over her head.
