Ripped (Real, #5)(45)

He slides his fingertips under the sleeve of my top, then runs them back down my arm. “Relax, Pink,” he coos.

His voice has gained a roughness that makes the hairs on my arms prick pleasurably. “My name . . . is Pandora.”

“I happen to know your name very well and I remember you didn’t like it, but you liked it when I called you gorgeous. It made your eyes dark and made you bite your lip, just like you’re doing now, because you wanted me to kiss you. Do you remember that, gorgeous girl?”

I scoff, but the sound is feeble. I bite my lip, but now it feels wet, and he’s looking intently at it as if expecting me to invite him to kiss me. He keeps touching me with those long musician’s fingers.

Never, ever date a musician. Other men will never compare.

Lithe fingers trace my arms and elbows. My wrists and fingers. Then up my legs. Those fingers brush over me and my tummy caves in from the pleasure.

I’m breathing in, out. In, out.

My tense muscles feel bunched up as he strokes his fingers up my throat. Gah, how to resist? Resist the only guy I’ve ever kissed. Ever loved, ever made love to. I start squirming as his fingers skim over my skin.

“Relax. I wanted ten minutes to change your mind, it’s only been two.”

“Seriously? Only two?” I whine.

He leans over and kisses my collarbone, his breath warm on my body as he starts kissing up my throat, and I remember it all.

Fingers touching me. Perfect Pandora . . .

My fingers curling awkwardly around his cock. How do I . . . ?

Babe, I swear, you move that hand and I’m going to go off.

My heart racing, my body trembling with nerves and the excitement of having Mackenna hot, long, and thick in my hand, looking down at me like a hungry sex fiend. The tip is wet, can I taste . . .

Fuck, don’t move that hand!

The memory creeps up on me, how innocent and hormonal we were, and before I can stop it, I curl my arms around his neck and I gasp into his ear, “Okay, you can sleep here tonight.”

His eyes shoot to my face and he lifts one brow. “Yeah?”

I bite my lip and nod eagerly.

I hear him whisper, “Fuck,” and he shoves his hands under my T-shirt and cups me over my bra, looking down at me and licking his lips as if savoring me. I should not want this so bad, I really shouldn’t.

“Just tonight,” I say. Always . . . I hear in my mind.

But he nods intently and says, “Just tonight.”

I lift my head and part my lips as he kisses a path up to my mouth, and when our lips brush, he groans and keeps brushing across them. I am so aroused by the thought of kissing him in bed that I have to peel my eyes open.

“What?” I whisper breathlessly, my body squeezing spasmodically with want as he thumbs my nipples. “Don’t you want to kiss me?” I wanted to tease him with my kiss, but now I’m the one feeling teased because he won’t take it.

His eyes burn with lust as he pulls his hands out of my top and angles my head to his, his hands cradling the back of my skull as he studies me and murmurs, “I want to do more than kiss you.”

I lick my lips and stare at his mouth. His mouth, which I really want—no, need—right now. I want to ask for what I want, but I’ve already asked him to stay and asking for more makes me feel open . . . so open . . . so weak . . .

I’m not comfortable expressing my feelings, a trait I inherited from my mom. The relationship she and my dad had was almost businesslike. Since he died, since Mackenna left, my only source of emotion has been Magnolia.

But she’s not a danger to me like Mackenna is.

She hasn’t broken me like he has.

So I just grab the back of his head, lift my head, and kiss him. Barely a nanosecond passes before he gets aggressive in return, almost squishing me as he stretches over me with his big body so that his cock is nestled between my thighs. And I feel it. His thick, hard, throbbing shaft. Against my body. Only my jeans and his leather pants separating us.

“This has to come off,” he says and tugs my top upward.

I stop him, pulling it back down. “Wait.”

His eyes sparkle in challenge and I smile playfully, trying to do it slowly, to make him anticipate it.

Do it, Pandora. He’ll get even more excited when you take all this away. Think about the blue balls you can give him, a little devil tells me. The same devil who watched me get hurt.

He watches, rapt.

I pull it over my head.

He reaches for the bra.

“Wait,” I again command.

His lids grow even heavier, his jaw tightly clamped as he licks his lips once more. My silver-eyed, hungry wolf . . .

I slowly begin to unlatch and slip off my bra.

His eyes keep darkening and darkening, a muscle working in the back of his jaw as he now watches me unzip.

He follows me and unzips his leather pants.

He looks at one pointed, hard nipple, then the other, leaning over to take one tip between his teeth, tugging as he shoves down his pants and I kick off mine. Moaning, I rub instinctively, skin to skin. This wasn’t planned—all this sex—but I haven’t had sex in so many years and I just . . . oh. His groan. His groan kills me as he engulfs my other breast in his hand and murmurs, “You enjoy that little striptease?”

“Did you?” I shoot back.

He tugs the nipple harder, almost to the point of pain. “How much do you think I want you?”