The road curves and I move with him, my body already knowing to lean before I think to. The ocean flashes between breaks in the bluffs—white and flat and far away. I watch it and try to focus on the cold coming off the water, the way the wind is pulling my hair back, anything external and real.
It doesn’t reach whatever is still running hot underneath my skin.
And isn’t that the problem?
My thumb moves once against his stomach before I can stop it. Then I tap his thigh twice.
He slows immediately, scanning the road ahead before easing us off onto a small overlook carved into the side of the coastal highway. Gravel crunches under the tires as he brings the bike to a stop, cutting the engine a second later.
“You okay?” His voice cuts through the quiet.
“Yes—no.” I shake my head, stepping off his bike and standing next to him.
“What do you need, baby?” His gaze roams over my face, but he doesn’t touch me.
I wish he would. I wish he could just read my mind and know that I have this coursing need inside of me right now. One I don’t know how to extinguish.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, reaching for him. My hand catches at the front of his shirt, pulling him down just enough to close the space between us, and then my mouth is on his before he can ask another question.
He responds instantly. His hand sweeps to the nape of my neck, fingers digging into the tangle of my hair, gripping tight as he pulls me closer. The kiss is fierce and unyielding—a raw, hungry collision.
I lean into him, palms pressed flat against the hard plane of his chest, feeling the thunder of his heartbeat against my fingertips.
“Baby,” he says against my mouth.
I pull him back in. His hand slides from my hair to my jaw, then lower—his thumb tracing the line of my throat, the same throat he held so gently twenty minutes ago with the same hand he used to break Crowe’s wrist—and my breath catches on the contradiction of it.
“You’re not hurt,” he says, like he’s confirming it one last time.
“No.”
“Then what?—”
I shift my weight and let my hands drop, fingers curling at his waistband. I look up at him. “I need you.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
BELLAMY
Rafe stares at me,his face a landscape of intense hunger, eyes darkening like the sky bruising before a thunderstorm. “Right here?” he asks, his voice a low rumble as his eyebrow arches.
I lick my lips, tasting the salt of desire, my hands already busy with the button on his jeans. “Right here.”
The corner of his mouth twitches up in a smirk. “Can’t wait?”
I shake my head slowly, the metal of his zipper cool against my fingertips as I tug it down. “Can’t wait.”
His voice drops an octave, all gravel and heat. “What if I want a taste?”
His cock springs free from his jeans, hard and ready. I wrap my hand around him, feeling the silken steel pulsing against my palm, his sharp inhale sending a shiver down my spine.
“Do you?” I ask, looking up at him from under my lashes. His jaw is tight, the cords of his neck standing out in sharp relief. He’s a study in restraint, a coiled spring ready to release. The sight of him, raw and hungry, sends a throb of desire through me.
“Always,” he growls, stepping closer. But I don’t lose my grip on him. I stroke him slowly, savoring the velvety smoothness of his skin, the way he throbs in my hand. He kisses me deeply, his moans vibrating into my mouth, his hips moving in sync with my strokes.
“You’ll have to wait your turn.”
I open his pants wider and sink to my knees, the rough gravel biting into my skin, but I barely notice. All I see is Rafe’s thick cock. I can almost taste the salt of him on my tongue, feel the weight of him on my lips. My mouth waters at the thought, and I squeeze my thighs together to relieve the ache building between them.
