Page 70 of Off the Grid

Tiny fireworks going off every place we touch. Nerve endings that I thought were dead and gone forever are detonating. One by one. One after another. Each mini explosion working toward what I hope will be a grand finale.

“Camilla,” he groans when my fingertips pull up the hem of his shirt, him pulling it the rest of the way off, as I find his firm, warm skin beneath.

And even that is new to me. Touching him and finding pleasure in it. Tracing my fingertips up the grooves and dents fuels the ache it seems only he can create within me.

I pull my own shirt over my head, desperate to feel his fingertips on my skin. To know what it’s like to be touched when it feels like forever since I have and have enjoyed it.

Our lips meet again—hungrier this time. More desperate. And we chuckle against each other’s lips as we both reach back to unhook my bra at the same time.

I drop my hands. I let him do the honors. And the way he slides his hands from my ass up my bare back—the strength in them comforting and arousing at the same time—before unclasping my bra and casting it aside.

He leans back, his eyes roaming over my bare chest, and hisses in an appreciative breath. “Jesus, Camilla.”

My nipples pebble, the ache as poignant there as between my thighs. I didn’t know breasts could throb like this.

“Riggs.” His name is a plea and a command all at once.

But he stands there and waits for me to act. To initiate. To show him what I need.

I reach out, put my fingers into the waistband of his pants and tug him toward me. He lands against my chest, but this time—our bare skin touching, the warmth of our bodies against each other’s—is like lighting the fuse to a stick of dynamite.

I’ve waited six years to feel something, anything. And now that I do, I don’t want to wait another fucking second.

I want to drown in sensations. Be overcome with feeling. I want to burn from the ache.

“Touch me,” I murmur. “Kiss me.” I kiss him and tug on his bottom lip. “Fuck me, Riggs.”

A chuckle falls from his lips as he leans back and looks at me. “You sure you know what you’re asking for?”

I quirk a brow. “I’ll hold on tight, but that means you better take me for a damn good ride.”

His laugh bellows around the room. His eyes meet mine. A chance for me to back out. To save face despite my spoken bravado.

But I do neither.

Instead, with my eyes locked on his, I begin to unbutton my jeans. To pull down the zipper. To let them drop off my hips and pool at my ankles on the floor.

“Fucking hell, woman,” he grits out, seeing me without a mountain of baggy clothes on for the first time. “You’re . . . breathtaking.”

And if there is one thing I’ll take away from tonight so far, it’s the way I feel hearing those words. Hearing them from him.

I have a visceral reaction to them. My throat swallows. My lips part. My breasts grow heavy. Between my thighs grows wet.

He undoes his top button.

“Stunning.”

Pulls down the zipper.

“Sexy.”

Pushes them and his boxer briefs down over his hips so his cock springs free with the action.

“Irresistible,” he says. Or at least I think he says it because I’m too busy looking at Spencer Riggs in all his gorgeous, naked glory.

The man is a masterpiece and his cock falls right in line with that theory. He’s a little above average in size with firm thighs and a sexy-as-hell V on his abdomen that have my mouth going dry.

“I think this is going to be a problem, Cami.”