Page 30 of Elite Metal: Warriors

She gusted a sigh. “I should have stayed down below.”

“With Ant?” He practically spat the words. Something fizzled through her. Was that…jealousy? It certainly seemed like jealousy.

All of a sudden, his dour mood didn’t bother her so very much. Something curled within her; it felt like hope. She shot Sterling a blinding smile and fluttered her lashes. “He’s a very good cook.”

Sterling snarled. His knuckles went white on his beer bottle.

“And quite…handsome. And, if I didn’t misread him, he’s rather…” She made it a point to shiver. “Dominant.”

A sharp-cut jaw clenched. His gaze blazed. His energy hummed. “Like that, do you?” he gritted.

“Couldn’t you tell? When you smacked my bottom?” She was teasing him and she knew it. But he, apparently, didn’t. Apparently he had no clue how deeply that one night had scored her, changed her. He had no idea how much she wanted to do that again.

He lurched from his chair and stomped to the fridge and grabbed another beer, though he hadn’t finished the one he was working on. Roni hid a smile at this small hint that she was getting under his skin.

“Steele is sexy too,” she said in an innocent tone, although there was not an innocent bone in her body.

Sterling slammed the fridge door hard; bottles clanked.

“And Chrome.” She fluttered her lashes again, because when one was goading a possessive dominant warrior to release his restraint, one couldn’t flutter them enough. “All your friends are…”—another shiver—“yummy.”

His snarl surprised her. Or maybe not. “Keep away from them. They’re not for you.”

She loved it. Loved his possessive tone. “Really?” She traced the pattern on the table with a fingertip. “And who is for me?” A whisper.

His lips tightened. His nostrils flared. A flush rose on his cheeks. “Me.”

Just that. One word. It sliced through to her womb. Me.

She slid the sandwich away. She couldn’t manage another bite. Something was clogging her throat, something that tasted like excitement. She flicked a look at him, standing there in the kitchen, magnificent, enraged, hard, with his hands fisted at his sides, his gaze spitting fury.

Yes, awkward and uncomfortable as this exchange had been, she knew now, knew how to break through his wall.

She caught his gaze and licked her lips. “Oh, really?” she said. “Prove it.”

Chapter Eight

Heat lanced him. A screaming, howling, rippling tide of it.

Prove it.

Prove it.

Oh, hell on wheels. He would.

He stormed over to the table and yanked her to her feet. He stared at her face; her expression slayed him. Her eyes were glazed, lips parted, lashes trembling. Fuck. He had to kiss her. Had to.

It was not what he intended. Not sweet or seductive or gentle in the slightest. It was a maelstrom. A wild, reckless melding of mouths, a tangling of spirit, a consummation. And the best part? She fucking responded with equal furor.

Like an enraged beast, he pushed her back against the table. It skidded over the Formica. Her plate and his beer bottle wobbled and then fell, crashing to the floor. He didn’t give a shit. But the lack of traction was annoying, so he whipped her up into his arms and—not breaking their connection—carried her to the room he’d been fantasizing about.

Oh, not the bedroom.

The playroom.

It took every damn ort of his restraint to release her, to set her on her feet and turn her so she could see what was in store for her. She eeped as she took in the equipment, the paraphernalia of his passion. The cross, the spanking bench, the cot with restraints blatantly displayed.

He pulled her back against him so he could nest his raging cock in the pillows of her ass. He loved that she clenched her cheeks, testing his girth. Testing his resolve.