Page 103 of Off the Grid

What if this doesn’t work?

He tugs my head back by my hair so I’m forced to stop thinking, and I have to look up into his darkened eyes and arrogant smirk. “Are you going to break out a PowerPoint for me?”

“When you’re with me, there’s no one else.”

“Stop talking, Camilla. I’m about to fuck you. I want to think about how good your pussy is going to feel when I push into you for the first time. I want to think about what sounds you make when you come. Not rules. Now is for fucking. For screaming my name. After is for whatever crash course in Camilla Rules there are. Got it?”

“Yes.” It’s a breathless syllable of consent and thank God because, what was I thinking talking when all I want to do is get lost in the already overwhelming sensations and we haven’t even started yet?

Your turn, Camilla.

Take what you asked for.

I lean into Riggs and meet his lips. The kiss starts off slow, steady, but there’s an underlying hunger in it. A telltale vibration hinting at how hard he’s holding tight to his control.

It’s a heady feeling.

Empowering.

And I want more of everything.

His hands cuff my wrists against his chest so that our sole focus is our kiss. The meeting of our lips. Our tongues. Our smothered moans and swallowed groans.

His lips coax me, brand me, tempt me, with the promise of what is to come. And with the knowledge if this is what just his mouth can make my body feel—then I might combust when we’re skin to skin.

Each kiss grows more urgent than the next.

Each tug of my lip or touch of our tongues creates more desperation.

He releases my hands and the pent-up need to touch, to be touched, explodes in an all-out war to see who can touch each other’s skin the fastest.

It’s calloused fingertips up my rib cage as I pull my shirt over my head.

It’s stuttered breaths as I scrape my fingernails over that perfect V of his and then shove his sweats down so his cock can spring free.

It’s even more gorgeous than I remember.

It’s his hiss when he sees me shirtless. “Christ, woman. You’re gorgeous.”

We stand like this—inches apart—for a few seconds as anticipation races through my veins.

And then from one beat to the next, we launch ourselves at each other, meeting somewhere in the middle. We’re a mass of hands and tongues and commands and haste.

Clothes prevent what we want the most. To touch. To taste. To see. And so we’re discarding them as fast as we can, all the while trying to kiss our way through the delayed gratification.

His sweats get kicked off. And his fingers find their way beneath my panties as he pushes my pants down.

“Yes.” It’s a strangled cry as his fingers part me, play with me, enter me.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he mutters before his mouth slants over mine again. “Stunning.” A slide of his tongue down the curve of my neck. “About to get fucked.” His chuckle rumbles against the pulse on my throat and reverberates through me.

But I don’t need words.

I don’t need seduction.

There’s just him doing exactly what I asked him to do—make me feel. Overwhelm me with sensations that I never imagined existed before. I’m like a blind woman seeing color for the first time, and now I want to see the whole damn color chart at once.

And I’m pretty sure Riggs understands my mewls and moans because he doesn’t relent. He doesn’t give up.