“Tank,” she breathes.
Yeah.
I know.
I keep kissing her as I turn us, guiding her sideways, until the wall catches her shoulder first and then the rest of her. She shivers when it touches her, but she does not pull away.
Good.
My hand slides down her thigh, over bare skin under the hem of my shirt, and she makes the prettiest little sound I have ever heard in my life.
“There you are,” I mutter against her mouth.
Her fingers tighten in my cut.
I kiss down her jaw, her throat, the spot below her ear that makes her knees go weak.
“Tell me if you don’t want this.”
“I want it.”
“Tell me to stop and I stop.”
She shakes her head fast.
I drag my mouth back up to hers. “Words.”
“Don’t stop.”
That damn near does me in.
I hook my hand in the hem of the shirt and drag it up her body in one clean pull. It hits the floor.
She is standing in front of me in nothing but a pair of tiny panties, flushed all over, breasts full and soft, damp hair falling around her shoulders, eyes dark and fixed on mine.
Christ.
The sight punches straight through me.
“You trying to kill me?” I ask, voice wrecked.
A shaky little breath slips out of her. Almost a laugh. Almost a moan.
My hands go to her waist, then higher, rough enough to show her what she does to me, careful enough not to scare her with it. I mouth at her throat, down over her collarbone, then lower, kissing the upper swell of one breast while my palm slides up the back of her thigh again.
She gasps and throws her head back against the wall.
“That’s it,” I murmur against her skin. “Let me hear you.”
She is so damn responsive it feels unfair. Every brush of my mouth, every drag of my hand, every filthy little thing I say into her skin gets me another sound. Another shiver. Another helpless roll of her hips that tells me exactly how far gone she already is.
I drop to my knees in front of her.
Her eyes go wide.
I look up at her from between her thighs and slide my hands up the backs of her legs, holding her there while I drag my mouth over the inside of one thigh.
“Tank,” she whispers.
