Page 93 of Wild Sanctuary

“I was twenty.”

“I know.”

“You never said anything.”

“You were twenty.” Like that explains everything.

She leans in and presses a kiss to the underside of my jaw. Then to the corner of my mouth. Soft and deliberate, like she’s mapping me.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” she whispers against my skin.

I tighten my grip on her thighs, pressing her harder into the door. My mouth finds the hollow of her throat, and I feel her pulse jump against my lips.

“Tell me what you want.” I don’t beg. I have never begged for a thing in my life, but those words sound dangerously close.

“Touch me.”

Two words. She says them simply, like asking me to pass the salt. Like she isn’t stripping every last defense I’ve got.

I shift her weight to one arm. She weighs nothing. A hundred pounds of sharp edges and warm skin and six years of wanting I couldn’t outrun. My free hand slides down between us. Over her ribs, her hip, to the hem of that black dress. My fingers find bare thigh and I stop. Look at her.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” No hesitation. Her eyes don’t leave mine.

The dress rides up under my hand. My fingers trace higher, past the edge of lace, and when I slide beneath it and find the heat of her, my forehead drops against hers because it’s that or my knees give out entirely.

She’s drenched. Slick and swollen and so warm against my fingers that my cock throbs hard enough to hurt. I gently drag my fingertips through the length of her, slow, learning the shape of her, and the sound I make doesn’t belong to a man who’s had control of himself for thirty-five years.

She gasps and her head falls back against the door.

“Christ, Daisy.” My voice is a hoarse rasp. “You feel like—fuck.”

I can’t finish the sentence because I don’t have the words. She’s silk and heat and everything I’ve spent six years pretending I didn’t want, and she’s dripping down my goddamn fingers.

“Don’t stop.” Her voice is thin as her fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks, and I don’t care. I want the marks. I want proof tomorrow that this was real.

I find her entrance and press inside, one finger first, then two when she opens for me with a moan that I feel in the base of my spine. She clenches around me already, and I haven’t even started. My thumb finds her clit and I circle it slowly while my fingers curl inside her, searching for the spot that’ll take her apart.

I know I’ve found it when her whole body jolts.

“There, baby?” I murmur against her temple.

She just nods, fast, her mouth open, her breath coming in sharp little bursts that are doing catastrophic things to my self-control. I press into that spot again, rubbing steadily with my fingertips while my thumb works her clit in slow, tight circles, and her hips start rolling against my hand in a rhythm that’s going to end me.

Every sound, every twitch, every time her teeth sink into her bottom lip goes straight to my cock. I’m so hard it’s agony, pinned between her thigh and my own body, and every time she grinds forward, I get friction I didn’t ask for and can’t afford.

“Look at me,” I rasp.

Her eyes open. Brown shot through with amber, and right now they’re barely focused, glazed and desperate and locked on mine.

And I know with certainty that I have never in my life seen anything as beautiful as Daisy Monroe falling apart in my arms.

I press harder with my thumb, quicken the curl of my fingers, and she cries out. I swallow it with my mouth, kissing her through it, tasting every sound she gives me while my hand works her steady and relentless between her thighs. She’s so wet I can hear it, the slick sound of my fingers moving inside her, and the knowledge that I did this to her, that her body is this desperate for mine, makes me dizzy.

Her whole body is tensing, her thighs tightening around my waist, her nails biting into the back of my neck.

I press my mouth to her ear. “Let go, Daisy-girl.”