His hands grab the hem of my shirt and rip it over my head in one smooth motion.
My breasts are exposed—brown areolas, nipples already hard.
A guttural grunt escapes his throat—a sound of pure need—and it makes me hotter.
He cups one breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple before he leans in and takes it into his mouth.
I gasp.
He sucks, nibbles, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak.
I’m naked on his lap
Soaked.
Throbbing.
"You don't know how long I've been waiting for this, Bec's," he growls against my skin.
I freeze for just a second.
*Bec’s. *
Only a few people have ever been allowed to call me that.
But the way it sounds coming from his mouth—rough, reverent, possessive—is almost euphoric.
It means something.
*I* mean something.
He grabs me then, holding me tight, and stands.
He carries me to the bed, my naked body already quivering, my bruises still healing but I don't care.
The pain adds to the intensity.
He sets me down gently—even now, careful—but the dynamic has shifted.
I watch as he removes his shirt slowly, deliberately.
His body is cut.
Built.
Scarred.
Military.
Dangerous.
Every muscle defined.
My breath catches.
Heat rises in my core.
He slides his pants off, and his cock springs free—big, thick, throbbing.
