“There you are.”
He rewarded me by dropping to his knees. The sight of him there—broad shoulders, ink-dark skin—was a physical weight in the room. He didn’t look like a man surrendering. He looked like a hunter settling into his vantage, eyes steady and perfectly positioned to take exactly what he wanted.
Steady, Jules.
His hands hooked into my waistband and pulled. The shorts slid down my thighs, my calves, pooling at my ankles. I stepped out of them, and he tossed them aside without looking.
For a moment, he just looked at me, attention climbing my body inch by inch. "No underwear either," he observed. "You really weren't expecting company."
"I don't like lines."
His eyes glittered. "Good. Neither do I."
He leaned forward, and his mouth found the inside of my thigh. A kiss. Then another, higher. His stubble scraped against sensitive skin, and I shuddered, my hands grabbing for the frame, his shoulder—anything to anchor myself.
He took his time. Worked his way up one thigh, then the other, leaving a trail of heat and damp. When he reached the apex, he paused. Breathed against me. Waited.
"Nick." My voice broke on the syllable. "Please."
"Please what?"
I couldn't form the words. Couldn't articulate what I needed when I barely understood it myself. I just knew that if he didn't touch me, didn't end this exquisite torture, I might actually fracture.
He seemed to understand anyway.
His mouth found me, and I stopped thinking entirely.
The first stroke of his tongue was devastating. Slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the taste of me. No one had ever taken their time with me like this. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me open, holding me steady, while he worked me with the same focus he'd used to track that leopard.
I was going to come apart. Right here, against this frame, with my fingers twisted in his hair and his name falling from my lips as everything inside me gave in.
He sensed it. Of course he did. He pulled back just before the edge, and I whimpered—actually whimpered—at the loss.
“Not yet.” He rose to his feet, and I could see the strain in his jaw, the way his hands flexed once before going still. He was holding himself back. For me. “Bed.”
It wasn't a question.
He swept me up like I weighed nothing—one arm under my knees, the other around my back—and carried me through the suite. The space was dark, but enough moonlight filtered through the canvas seems to paint everything in silver and shadow. He laid me on the bed with more care than I expected, then straightened to look at me.
I'd never felt so exposed. Or so powerful.
"Your turn," I said, pushing up on my elbows. "You're wearing too many clothes."
He didn't move. "I'm wearing exactly what I need to be wearing."
"Which is?"
His hands went to his belt. The slow slide of leather through khaki was obscene. He pulled it free in one long movement, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Then his fly.
When he pushed his pants down, I forgot to breathe.
He was beautiful. Not in the way of the men I'd known before—polished, groomed, soft in all the places that mattered. Nick was carved. Every muscle defined, every line purposeful. The tattoos continued below his waist, wrapping around his hips, trailing down his thighs. And between them, his cock was hard, thick, demanding attention.
He didn't rush. Let me look my fill, the same way he'd let me look at his chest. When my eyes finally met his again, he was watching me with that same intense focus.
"Last chance," he said. "To tell me this is a mistake."
Oh, baby. That ship has sailed.
