Butterface (The Hartigans #1)(53)

Her hands were in his hair, holding him close as he kissed along the line of her exposed collarbone. He raised his hand and brushed the back of his knuckles down the long column of her neck to the collar of the thin material of her dress. Her answering moan tipped him over the edge.

He grabbed her hips and turned her around so she faced the door and made quick work of the zipper on the back of her dress. There was no slow teasing between them, not tonight.

“Take it off.” He barely recognized his own voice in the gruff command.

She turned around and reached for the light switch.

“Leave it on.”

She hesitated but left it alone. Then, she let the yellow dress slide off her body to pool at her feet, her eyes on him, a sexy come-hither upward curl on her full lips. “Like what you see?”

“‘Like’ isn’t the word I’d use.” He curled a hand around her wrists and pulled her arms up above her head, pinning them to the door with one hand. “‘Obsessed with’ seems about right.”

Eyes watching her face for her reaction, he brushed the back of his knuckles over her hard nipples, pressing against the pale pink of her sheer bra. “‘Can’t get enough’ comes to mind.”

Desire swirled in the dark depths of her hooded gaze, and he pinched her nipple through the material, and she let out a needy moan. “‘Want it all’ is definitely correct.”

He put his leg between hers, moving it so that his thigh rubbed against her panty-covered mound. “The question is, what do you like?”

He unsnapped the front clasp of her bra and sucked her nipple into his mouth, raking his teeth over the hard nub. “Do you like that?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice breaking.

Rolling her other nipple between his finger and thumb, he moved his leg away from touching her. She let out a frustrated groan that he felt down to his balls. He cupped her breast, rolling his thumb in circles around her nipple again and again before taking his hand lower, stopping only when he got to the top of her panties. She pushed her hips forward, silently begging for his touch. Poor Gina. She was as lost as he was. He kissed the spot where her shoulder met her throat, that pulse point that was always so sensitive to his tongue, his lips, his nipping teeth.

“Are you wet for me?” he asked against her flushed skin.

She let out a tortured moan. “Yes.”

He slipped his fingers beneath the elastic of her panties, brushing against the tight curls at her apex but not going any farther. “Do you want to fuck me?”

“Yes.” She bucked against his hand, undulating her hips in an obvious effort to get him to touch her where she needed him.

But he wasn’t going to do that. Not yet. He needed her to understand what this was about. They weren’t just fucking. Not anymore. This was more. “Do you want me to fill you up and make you mine?”

Lip caught between her teeth, she nodded. “Yes.”

“I want you to be mine.” It was a declaration, a promise, a prayer. He picked her up and headed for the stairs. “No one else’s.”

…

It was just talk, the kind of out-of-your-mind, turned-on-beyond-belief talk that didn’t stay true in the light of day, but Gina wasn’t going to think about that now. Not with Ford touching her like that and looking at her like he really meant it—like he’d fallen for her the way she had for him. And that’s what it was, and that’s what made this so good and so bad at the same time. She loved him. There wasn’t any two ways about it. Ford Hartigan didn’t have to make her his, she already was.

“Be careful of the wonky step,” she said as he carried her up the stairs.

His grip tightened on her. “You don’t have to worry when you’re with me.”

He brought her into the bedroom and set her down near the foot of her bed. Then, he started to unbutton his shirt, and her jelly legs decided it would be better to watch the show from the bed. Her legs were smart.

Totally unconscious of the fact that she was in her underwear while he was doing a strip tease—even if he probably wasn’t thinking of it that way—Gina took in the moment, packing it away in her memory bank for a night probably not that long from now when Ford would be gone.

His shirt went first, followed by him reaching behind his head and yanking off his undershirt. That gave her an unobstructed view of his muscular chest and arm-porn-worthy biceps. She meant to stay on the bed, really she did, but her legs—smart legs, remember—had other ideas. While he flipped off his shoes, she was next to him, tracing her hands across the expanse of his shoulders, circling his flat nipples with her tongue, and lowering herself to her knees to better follow the happy trail leading from his belly button to the button of his jeans.

When he reached to unfasten it, she swept his hand aside and did it herself, watching the exquisite anticipation that made his nostrils flair and darkened his green eyes. She pushed his jeans down, then his boxers, and wrapped her hands around the base of his hard cock, stroking up and down.

“Gina,” he said, the rough edge of his voice sending a thrill through her.

She cupped his balls and took a slow lick of the swollen head. “Yes?”

“You’re not being nice.”

Up and down she stroked. “Really? I thought I was being very nice.”

The vein in his jaw ticked, visible proof of the tenuous hold he had on his control. “This is about you tonight.”