Page 43 of Hard to Hold

The kiss is laced with greed and lust, and all I can focus on is the feel of his body, the trace of beer on his tongue, and how very angry I am at him for just being him.

“We can’t do this,” I murmur in between kisses. Over and over. A nip of his bottom lip. “This is wrong.” A gasp as his hand fists in my hair. “Unethical.” His hand on my lower back pulling me against him, so I can feel how hard that beautiful cock of his is. “We need to stop.” A grind of his hips against mine. “Rush?”

It’s his turn to break the kiss this time. He twists his hand in my hair and pulls back ever so slightly so our faces are inches apart.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t give a fuck about the rules.” He dips down and tugs on my bottom lip with his teeth before leaning back again so his eyes are front and center, lids heavy with lust. “I care about the here and the now and the taste of your kiss and hopefully the grip of your pussy should we keep this up. So . . . fuck the bloody rules.”

I’ve always been shit at self-control.

Always.

And right now, I know there is no turning back. There is no saying no. I knew the minute I met Rush McKenzie I was going to break the rules for him, and the laugh that falls from my lips and echoes around the kitchen sounds just as crazy as the notion.

Emotions are complicated, nasty things.

That’s why this is the perfect way to do this. Without thought and on instinct. If we just dive in head first, scratch that itch, neither of us will be able to complain about it.

It will just be pleasure.

That’s all it will be.

“Careful, Nox,” he murmurs. “You’re playing with fire here.”

I lean in closer so my lips are at his ear—his body tensing in anticipation is a seduction all in itself—and whisper, “You ready to burn with me, Rush?”

I see the muscle feathering in his jaw as our eyes lock again, our desire making the decision before our reason can. Our excited breaths hit off each other’s lips as our chests heave against one another’s in a battle for the small amount of space separating us.

And then in that split second, we collide again as if the air between us is on fire and we need to smother it to put it out. Our bodies become one as we use the anger and desperation and lack of control to fuel our every moment. We begin removing clothes—items are discarded without a care to where they are being tossed—because right now there is a need to touch his skin, to map his tattoos with my lips, to add my own marks with my teeth.

We don’t take the time to admire each other’s bodies in this state—misted with sweat, smelling of arousal, and tense with a carnal necessity. We can’t. We’re too consumed by the moment and each other.

Our lips bruise as we kiss like our lives depend on each and every connection we make.

We don’t discuss where we’re doing this or how. We just move in sync. He’s lifting my ass onto the kitchen counter and propping my feet up on the stools below.

He dips his fingers into me with one hand while his other holds my neck, and I lean back into it.

“Rush. God. That feels . . .” My words are eaten by the moan I emit when his lips find that hollow spot just beneath my jaw and his fingers slide in as far as they can go before he starts the motion all over again.

I sag against his hand as his groan fills the room, prompting me to scoot my ass closer to the edge to give him unhindered access.

My eyes close and lips part as I let him prepare me in the most pleasurable way for the thickness of his cock that is ready and waiting.

He works me up so that between the friction of his thumb and the manipulation of his fingers, I’m a wet mess, which is more than ready to be pushed over the edge he’s built me up to.

Our lips meet again, and this time it’s my hands fisting in his hair, it’s my hands reaching between his thighs to grab what I want and tell him I want it right now. And regardless of the violent desperation that tinges our kisses, Rush makes sure that his hands have mapped every surface of my body, leaving goosebumps laced with anticipation in their wake.

It’s almost as if he’s marking me to make sure every time someone touches me from here on out, I’ll remember this—his hands, his touch—and the havoc they wreaked on my senses.

It’s exhilarating and exhausting because all I want is him in me, owning me, pleasuring me.

“Lennox. I need . . . you. Please. You ready?” he murmurs with his lips against my breast, those eyes of his looking up at me.

“I thought you’d never ask,” I tease as he moves to where his pants are half hanging on the wine rack and fishes his wallet out. Within a few moments, he’s jacketed, those sexy forearms of his on perfect display as he rolls the condom over his dick.

But it’s when he looks up at me that I lose my breath. Rush stands there with shadows playing over his body and face, chest heaving, and eyes roaming over all the places his hands have been until they land between my parted thighs.

His hand slides up and back over the length of his cock as he takes a step forward and stares at me sitting here—legs spread, body begging, arousal glistening on my inner thighs. If I ever needed to paint a picture of everything that is desire, it would be Rush McKenzie in this moment.