"There's no sending you back, Dakota. Not anymore," he says.
"No?"
"You walked through that door. That's the whole thing. You walk back out, you walk back out. You stay, you're mine."
"Spur."
"I'm not going to be a man who shares you. I'm not going to be a man who pretends in front of your father. I'm not going to be a man who sleeps on your couch. So, if you came down this path to scratch an itch, you tell me now and I'll drive you back."
His thumbs are still moving on my cheekbones.
"And if I came down this path because I'm done waiting for you to make a damn move?"
"Then I'm going to ruin you for any other man who tries to look at you for the rest of your life."
I put my hand on his chest.
I feel his heart. Hard and fast.
The heart of a man who hasn't slept in two days and just walked the woman he wasn't supposed to want into his cabin.
"Ruin me, then," I say.
He kisses me.
The door's locked. I hear it click when his hand comes off the wood.
His lips brush mine, soft at first, testing, but there's no retreat this time.
The kiss deepens slowly, dangerously, his tongue slipping past my teeth to stroke mine with deliberate pressure.
I taste the faint salt of his skin, the heat of his breath mingling with mine as his hands slide from cradling my face into my hair.
Fingers tangle in the strands, tugging just enough to tilt my head back, exposing my throat.
His mouth leaves mine, trailing wet kisses down my jaw, then lower.
Lips press against the pulse hammering in my neck, teeth grazing lightly before sucking the skin there.
A shiver races through me as his palms glide over my collarbone, thumbs tracing the hollows, pushing my shirt's neckline aside.
He nips at the bone, tongue flicking out to soothe the sting, and I gasp, my back arching into him.
We shift without me realizing, my shoulders bumping the wall beside his bed.
The cool wood presses against my spine, a stark contrast to the fire building between us.
My fingers clutch the front of his cut, leather warm and worn under my nails.
I yank at the snaps, desperate to feel more of him, and he shrugs his shoulders, letting his heavy cut slide off.
He tosses it on his couch, but his hands don't pause.
They drop to the hem of my shirt, knuckles brushing the bare skin of my stomach.
He bunches the fabric upward inch by inch, calluses scraping deliciously as he exposes my midriff.
Our mouths crash back together, tongues thrusting harder now, while he peels the shirt higher, over my ribs, thumbs hooking under my bra to graze the undersides of my breasts.
