Page 43 of On The Edge

She giggles and it falls off into a sigh. “Nope. I’m the queen and before this is done, they’ll all bow down to me. Even you.”

Dream the fuck on, Madds. I don’t bow down to anyone.

And yet my smile stays fixed in place.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Cruz

Fingers.

They tighten around my cock.

They stroke me up and down with the perfect amount of pressure before reaching down to cradle my balls.

Lips.

They brush against mine.

They’re soft and the gentle warmth of her tongue presses against the seam of my lips as she seeks access.

I grant it. Christ, how I grant it.

A low groan rumbles through me as I reach out and pull her toward me. One hand tangles in her hair as she shifts and sits astride me and the other palms her lower back. Both tighten when she sits down and the heat of her pussy hits just above the lowered waistband of my shorts.

She’s wet.

So fucking wet through the fabric of her panties that my skin dampens from it.

I can smell her arousal. Feel it. Want it coating my fingers and cock. Want to taste it on my own fucking lips.

She reaches out and takes one of my hands and presses it over her breast, arching her back so that it fits perfectly. Her pebbled nipples and her stuttered sighs own me.

“Cruz.” It’s the softest of moans that we swallow in our kiss.

I’m yanked from the dream. Immediately regretting waking up to a cold reality I won’t be able to satisfy only to realize . . . this isn’t a dream.

Far fucking from it.

And the details of it—the tickle of the ends of her hair on my chest. The taste of her on my tongue. The slickness of her arousal as she slides her hips against mine and grinds . . . it’s so much fucking better now that I’m awake.

Her lips. They’re the right amount of finesse and demand. Of greed. Of need.

I’m a goddamn fucking goner and we haven’t even started yet.

Thoughts try to break through the haze of lust. Rational ones. Necessary ones. But hell if the weight of her body on mine doesn’t cloud those out.

Everything about me is at war. My conscience and my libido. My head and my heart. My cock and my sensibility.

I’m so goddamn hard, so fucking turned on, that there is only one thing I want to focus on—Maddix. Being in her. Fucking her. Coming with her.

“Madds,” I murmur against her lips, my hands moving to her biceps and holding her firmly there.

A protest falls from her as she tries to struggle out of my grip. “No. Stop. Don’t talk.” Her lips find mine and I willingly let them staunch my protest. Her hands roam and fingernails scratch up my bare chest while my cock begs—fucking begs—for me to shut the hell up.

Every part of me took note of the way she moved on the dance floor. Every part fought the urge to kiss her when she pressed against me at the bar. And now all I want to do is act on it when I damn well shouldn’t.

She’s not the kind of woman you can fuck and walk away from. Literally. I can’t. She can’t.