Ripped (Real, #5)(20)
He stops advancing and laughs softly. “You’ve been thinking of my balls, haven’t you?”
“Only how much I’d like to chop them, slice them, and add salsa to them.”
“And have them against a nice juicy taco. Hmm.”
“Ohmigod! You’re disgusting!”
I try to push him, and he catches my hands in his warm ones, making me gasp when he pins them over my head, against the wall. Outrage bubbles in my veins. I feel so trapped and helpless, and suddenly my heart is going a mile a minute, pumping in my throat. A crazy, wild wave of lust follows my outrage.
God. Seven hours of this?!?!
I groan in protest. The sound of my groan seems to do something to him, because he tightens his hold and weighs even more heavily on me. All two hundred pounds of muscled him. Our eyes hold each other’s in the darkness, and the electricity rushes through me as I warn, “Let go.”
“You don’t mean that.”
I struggle futilely, and he tightens his hold. I nod. Yes, yes I do. I do mean it. But he transfers both my wrists to only one hand and leans his head against mine. The thundering of my heart echoes in my brain as his breath bathes my face. Oh god, he’s so close, and I’ve dreamed about being this close, in dreams and nightmares, during the day and during the night . . . I’ve dreamed of his eyes and how I used to find them always staring at me through those thick lashes of his. I’d dream and think of his lips. The top one shaped like a bow, almost as full as the bottom, the bottom one so plush and curved . . .
And then he kisses me, placing that mouth on me, cupping my head in his free hand, and parting my lips with the same lips I hadn’t realized I’d been staring at in painful hunger. The unexpectedness of his kiss makes me struggle halfheartedly to wrench free. I don’t want to want this. I don’t want this soul-searing thirst, the dreadful, inescapable feeling that I’ll break if he kisses me and I’ll break if he doesn’t. I whimper, as though it would make him have mercy on me. He doesn’t. He groans softly and tries slipping his tongue into my mouth, and when I part my lips and let him taste me because I’m clearly out of my mind, suicidal, and horny, I make a sound I haven’t ever made in my life. More than a moan or a whimper, a sound of true, quiet pain. He pulls back when I do, and so do I.
We both stare, in shock.
“Asshole,” I hear myself murmur, breathing hard.
“Bitch.”
He looks at my lips, and my sex squeezes in reaction as he lowers his head and covers my lips again, more viciously, with his own groan of pleasure.
For a fraction of a second, my body is a trembling mass of contradictions. My hands have not touched any man. Only a boy. Seventeen. Before he got the tattoo that peeks on the inside of his forearm. Before he became larger than life, a star, before he grew up to be this man.
One second, I’m a woman with a thousand walls, who rarely touches anyone or allows a hug. In the next, I’m six years younger, and he’s the guy I let in. I don’t want that girl to take over, but I live in her. This is her skin, and nobody can make it tremble like he does.
I’m not only trembling, I feel like I’m burning from the inside out. A hot, quivering mess of desire under his lips. The same lips that sing crap about me, hurt me, haunt me, somehow remain the most beautiful lips I’ve ever seen, felt, or tasted. God. Tasted.
In a sudden frenzy I grab his shoulders, my tongue pushing hungrily into his mouth, my hips rolling toward his. God, I hate this f*cking *.
I hate him for making me feel like this after all these years.
But my hands have a mission. Memorizing the texture of him. The feel of him. How he’s changed in six years. He’d been long and lean before and now he’s longer and harder. Smoother. Bigger. No more teen limbs, now he’s all thickness of a man, and though my arms are now free to roam, my head is trapped under the weight of his kiss. And I can’t get enough of his hot, wet, thirsty, mean, dirty, delicious mouth!
Hell, I can’t unleash all my anger in just this kiss.
I can’t express what he has done to me—how he has ruined my life—with just this incredible, pulse-pounding, life-altering kiss.
I want to bite and claw at him, kick and scream at him, take his cock in me and ride him until he can’t walk!
The bastard.
I want to hit him while I kiss him, curse him while I kiss him, push him the hell away from me while I kiss him.
I want to . . .
I just WANT.
As though channeling our frustrations and anger into this one kiss, we keep rubbing tongues almost ferally, rubbing our bodies against each other in as much anger as lust. He leans forward, grabs one of my thighs, and hooks my leg around his hips, still nearly kissing my lips off as he aligns his erection to my cunt, our sexes scraping through our jeans. One big palm cups my breast, and his thumb swipes across the hardened peak, to and fro, shooting angry sparks through me.
His hand slides under my T-shirt and I make a noise in the back of my throat as I slide my fingers under the fabric of his shirt as well, touching the smooth, bare flesh beneath. It’s harder than ever, the grooves of muscles hard and defined under my fingers, rippling as our bodies shift to get closer, our mouths remaining fused.
He winds his arms around me and sits back, adjusting me over him so my nipples brush against his chest as he pulls his mouth free and looks first at me, then at my swollen mouth. His face burns with a harsh, animalistic passion.