Ignite (Cloverleigh Farms #6)(42)

This was all her fault.

“You knew what you were doing.” I moved over her in a rough, unceasing rhythm.

“Huh?” She sounded breathless and confused.

“You knew just how to do it.” I changed the angle, plunging even deeper inside her. “How to make me want you this way. How to make me this hard.”

“Oh, God, Dex.” She struggled to speak. “You’re so big, it hurts.”

“Good.” I wanted to punish her for making me give in, for stealing my strength. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before coming over here in a pretty little dress and putting your hands on my cock.”

I knew I was taking a risk talking to her like that—she was so fucking young and probably not that sexually experienced—but I couldn’t help it. If she slapped my face when it was over and told me she never wanted to fucking see me again, fine. I’d deserve it.

But actually, she seemed to like it. As she got used to my size, her body relaxed and she wrapped her legs around me, rocked her hips beneath me, whispered her own dirty little words.

Yes. Fuck me. Right there. So deep.

And my favorite—I’m not sorry.

She felt so fucking good. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d wanted someone this much, or needed the release so badly.

My skin was on fire. My muscles were tense. My body moved inside her with abandon, the heat gathering at the base of my spine. She called out my name, her voice breaking, her hips bucking up beneath me. The storm broke, crashing over me in roaring waves that made my world turn silver, my head echo with thunder, and my cock surge and throb as I released all the pent-up tension within.

When I could see again, I stared down at her, breathing hard. Her expression was something between exhilarated and shell-shocked. Releasing her wrists, I braced my hands above her shoulders. “Fuck. Are you okay?”

“I think so.” She laughed softly. “I can’t feel my arms. Are they still attached to my body?”

“Sorry I got so carried away.”

“You warned me it wouldn’t be gentle.” She smiled. “You were right—partly.”

“Partly?”

Her eyes gleamed wickedly. “You were gentle with your tongue.”

At the memory of her thighs open before me, my heart skipped a beat. Immediately I wondered when I could taste her again.

Withdrawing from her body, I stood, yanked up my jeans, and offered her a hand. She took it and rose to her feet, pushing her dress down. Her hair had come loose. “Could I use your bathroom?”

“Sure.”

She scooped up her underwear from the floor and disappeared into the small half-bath across from the kitchen, rubbing one wrist. Closing my eyes a second, I exhaled, hoping she wouldn’t wake up with bruises tomorrow. What the hell would she say if someone asked about them? Locating my shirt across the room where I’d flung it, I pulled it over my head and went upstairs.

In the master bathroom, I disposed of the condom, washed my hands, and put myself back together. When I came down again, she was sitting on the couch, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. One arm was raised, and she was examining something on the side of her dress.

“Fuck,” I said, spotting the hole. “Did I rip your dress?”

“Yes, I think you did.”

I groaned. “God, I’m a dick. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine—it’s on the seam, so it can easily be stitched up.”

“Let me do it.”

She looked up at me in surprise. “Huh?”

“I’ll do it right now.” I headed for the stairs again. “Give me one minute to find a needle and thread.”

“You sew?”

“Yes, I sew,” I said, heading up the steps. “And I’m offended at your tone.”

She burst out laughing. “Sorry! You caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

It took me a few minutes to remember where I’d put the box my mother had given me with a tiny sewing kit in it, but I finally found it on the shelf in my closet. Tucking it under my arm, I grabbed a TCFD T-shirt from my dresser—sniffing it to make sure it was actually clean—and headed back downstairs.

“Here,” I said, handing her the shirt. “Give me the dress and put this on.”

She presented me with her back, lifting her hair off her neck. “Can you unzip it for me?”

I tossed my shirt on the couch and did as she asked, the intimate task sending a bolt of heat to my crotch. “I probably should have done this an hour ago, huh?”

“I mean, it might have saved you the trouble of sewing the rip, but then you wouldn’t have gotten to impress me with your hidden talent.” She grinned at me over one shoulder. “Although I’m learning you have several of those.”

Another bolt.

“Okay, you’re unzipped.”

Without turning around, she lowered the dress to her feet and stepped out of it, handing it over to me. But I stood there dumbfounded for a few seconds, distracted first by the gigantic faded bruise on her hip, and next by the barely-there, strappy black underwear she had on. I’d been so eager to get them off her, I hadn’t noticed them before.

“Jesus,” I said, staring like a schoolboy. “Do you always have things like that on under your clothes?”