Page 14
MIA
The world narrows to Mick’s hands braced under my thighs and the ragged edge of his breath at my ear. The TV is still blaring the closing credits of Halloween, but I don’t even register the sound anymore. I feel the shift in him like he’s finally snapped the leash on whatever self-control he’d been clinging to.
He kicks open the bedroom door without slowing, then spins and sets me down with my ass perched at the edge of his king-size bed. The walls are raw concrete, cold and a little intimidating.
I sit there for a second, dazed and more turned on than I’ve ever been. My pulse jackhammers as he stands over me, hands caging me in.
I try to get my bearings, but it’s useless. My brain turned to mush the moment he kissed me.
He bends down, both hands braced on either side of my hips, and kisses me again. It’s rough this time. His mouth is hungry and sure. I tilt my chin up and let him take what he wants, my fingers finding the back of his neck and holding on hard.
After a breathless eternity, he pulls back. The distance is so small, I can see every fleck of copper in his dark eyes. There’s a line of sweat at his hairline and his breathing is jagged, almost as bad as mine.
Then his hands slide up my ribs, deliberate and slow, and bunch the hem of my sweatshirt into his fists. He tugs at it, waiting. “Are you sure, trouble?” He’s giving me one last out, a chance to tap the mat and call a time-out.
To hell with that. “Shut up and get to work.” I stare into his eyes, and he pulls the sweatshirt up, over, and off in one smooth motion. The static pops against my skin.
I’m left in my bra and jeans, skin on fire, nipples hard under the soft lace. The air in the room chills my skin, but the look on Mick’s face is enough to scorch the rest of me. He’s dead silent, jaw tight, hands flexing open and shut like he’s forcibly restraining himself from just taking me down to the mattress right here.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he breathes like he’s saying it to himself, like he still can’t believe it’s happening.
I start to make a joke, some half-baked line about bold statements, but it dies in my throat the moment he puts both hands on my waist and lifts me to stand against him.
I’m not a small girl. I have hips and ass and thighs that do not disappear in low lighting, and this man moves me like I weigh nothing. The city is pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, painting his shoulders in gold and blue.
He looks down at me, searching. His thumb sweeps a line from my hip up to my ribcage, tracing the edge of the tattoo nobody ever sees. I wonder if he’ll ask about it, but all he says is, “You’re mine.”
“I only agree to that if it’s reciprocal.”
“Hell yeah it is,” he growls, then yanks me into his chest. His lips close over mine. My hands find his shoulders, digging in for purchase, and for the first time in my entire life, I feel like I’m right where I belong.
My whole body is going haywire. I dig my fingers into his bare shoulders, as if I’ll float away if I don’t hold on. He makes a sound, deep in his chest that vibrates through me and lands straight between my legs.
His hands spread over my hips, warm and enormous. I swear they could span my entire freaking rib cage if he tried. He’s breathing like he just played a triple overtime, and I am, too, wrecked and shaky and literally vibrating with how bad I want him.
He leans his forehead to mine, noses brushing. For a half-second, the world narrows to just the heat of his skin and the look in his eyes.
“Last chance to tell me to stop.” His voice is just a scrape now, a low, desperate growl.
I laugh, or something like it, all breathless and wild. “I’ll murder you if you stop now.”
He grins then his mouth is back on mine, hard enough to bruise, and I don’t care. I want the mark and the memory and the whole damn thing.
He gives me a little push and I fall flat on the bed, his hands never losing contact. I bounce, just a little, and it makes me laugh again. He steps back and starts ripping away his clothes, and my brain does that thing where it short-circuits.
He yanks at the button on my jeans and I lift my hips to help him shimmy them off.
Oh, God. I’m in just my favorite black lace bra and the matching panties that I mostly save for laundry day or funerals. What can I say? I went all out for this.
He stares for a long second then he drops on top of me, breathing hard, eyes black and greedy but weirdly tender, too. His palm runs down my thigh, all the way to my knee, and then back up, tracing the tattoo along my ribs. Like he’s memorizing it. Like it means something.
“Didn’t know you had this,” he mutters, thumb tracing the edge of the small rose like it’s sacred. “Fuck, it looks good on you.”
I can’t speak. My brain one hundred percent jello. I just grab him by the stupidly broad shoulders and pull him down on top of me.
His mouth is hot against my neck, my chest, everywhere. His hands slip under me, unhooking my bra and I barely have time to even feel self-conscious before he tears it away and my boobs are just out there, full display, nipples hard as rocks from the chill and the desire.
He stares until I fight the urge to wiggle on the bed then he palms my boobs, fingers spreading wide. I should be embarrassed by the loud moan that escapes me, but I’m not. Not one freaking bit.
