“You keep touching me,” I murmur against his mouth. “It seems unfair.”
One dark eyebrow lifts slightly. “Unfair?”
“Maybe I want to touch you too.”
“London,” he says slowly, like he’s trying very hard to hold onto the last scraps of his restraint, “you don’t have to?—”
“I know.”
That’s the important part. I know I don’t have to. I know I get to choose.
I don’t feel pressured or cornered or managed. I feel wanted. Desired. Safe.
I reach for the buttons of his henley slowly, pushing the fabric open inch by inch beneath his watchful stare.
And wow.
Broad shoulders. Hard chest. Strong stomach. Scars scattered here and there beneath tan skin. Old injuries. Faded marks of a life lived.
“You’ve definitely been in at least three bar fights,” I murmur.
His mouth twitches. “Only three?”
I laugh softly before leaning down and kissing the scar instead.
Troy goes completely still beneath me. The bad boy mountain man likes being kissed.
Almost as much as I like kissing him.
I trail my mouth slowly across his chest, feeling his muscles tense beneath my hands while his breathing roughens overhead.
“Jesus,” he mutters quietly.
Heat curls low in my stomach.
“You okay?”
His laugh sounds wrecked. “Not even a little.”
The answer sends a thrill through me.
Because this huge, intimidating man who everyone whispers about? He looks completely undone right now. By me.
I kiss another scar near his shoulder. Then some of the ink on his bicep.
Troy’s hands settle carefully on my hips .
“You keep doing that,” he says roughly, “and I’m gonna forget how to be a gentleman.”
I smile against his skin. “Maybe I don’t want you to behave.”
That breaks him.
He rolls us smoothly until I’m beneath him again, his mouth crashing back onto mine hard enough to steal my breath.
The kiss heats fast. His restraint frays more with every passing second while my hands move restlessly across warm skin and hard muscle.
Everywhere he touches me feels electric. Every kiss leaves me wanting more.
