Page 93 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

“You dragged me out here,” she says.

“You didn’t protest.”

She still doesn’t.

Instead, she steps closer on her own. I shrug out of my jacket and settle it around her shoulders. She catches the collar, fingers brushing my throat in the process.

“You’re shaking,” I murmur.

“Not from the cold.”

That does it.

I step into her space again, slow enough to give her an exit.

She doesn’t take it.

Her hands slide up my chest, palms flattening, fingers spreading, mapping me. “You’re not as calm as you look.”

“No,” I answer honestly. “Which is why I need to take you into those bushes over there, okay? So we can have some privacy.”

My pulse races as her face lights up. “I guess I am being wild tonight, huh?”

We’re half behind a trembling crape myrtle, bark peeling in fist-sized scrolls, when she hits me with another laugh, all wild green eyes and soft threat. I press her back against the trunk, leaves overhead catching every breath of wind like a held secret.

There’s no one else out here, but it feels public, feels like a crime worth committing. We’re both flushed. One of her earrings catches the sodium vapor, flares hot as a tiny lantern.

“Are we really doing this?” she asks before her lips crash into mine.

The way she’s grinding against me suggests she already knows the answer.

She pulls my shirt from my belt with both hands, knuckles grazing my ribs. I can’t breathe as she tugs me against her. There’s no negotiation, no game, just hunger. Her fingers spread over my back, under my shirt, blunt nails digging a line above my waistband.

My own hands are less disciplined; I rake them from her shoulders down her sides slowly, feeling every cord of muscle flex under skin. Her legs slot in between mine.

She brushes my rock-hard cock outside my jeans, and my breath catches in my throat. She brings her mouth to my neck, biting just enough to leave a mark.

“Relax,” she whispers, but I can feel her own pulse jackhammering through her lips.

I’m barely coherent enough to palm the back of her head, to let her take control, to let this happen. I’m not the one with all the power here. She is, and she knows it.

She undoes the belt buckle, pops the button of my jeans, eases down the zipper, cool fingers tracing lines along the base of my stomach. Then she looks up at me with this wicked, hungry smile. I want to say her name, but it comes out as a groan.

I need to fuck her… that’s the only thing I can focus on.

I lift her with both hands under the thighs and press her against the tree. It’s almost rough, the way she wraps her legs around my hips and holds on.

The jacket has slipped to the ground already, lost somewhere in the mulch. I couldn’t care less. Both of us are breathing hard, the sound as loud as a freight train in the hush. Her skirt’s up around her waist now, and she’s already got her panties pulled aside with one hand. The other’s on me, pulling, guiding, gasping when she feels how ready I am.

“You’re really not the careful type,” I say.

She huffs a laugh and bites my shoulder through my shirt. “You have no idea.”

The first push inside her nearly ends me. She’s so hot, so impossibly wet, that my body draws a pulse of heat through every limb.

She opens her mouth in a gasp that’s almost a cry, muffles it in my neck, her body tensing around me, pulling me deeper, and I have to grit my teeth not to come immediately.

“Fuck,” I hiss, a soundless syllable in the hush of the night.