Ripped (Real, #5)(85)

Quietly, suddenly, Mackenna ducks his head and slips his fingers into the straps of my top, then eases it off my shoulders. He kisses my bare skin, his lips both loving and tender, and the kiss crashes against my walls like a wrecking ball. When I make a soft whimper of pain, he lifts his head and his gaze is a whirlwind of contrasts, framed by desire and need.

“It’s going to be all right, Pink, I promise,” he whispers. “She’ll know that we love her.” Strong, gentle hands curl around the back of my head as he kisses my forehead. We stay there for a moment, quietly mourning, when soft, fevered kisses start raining down on my face—more feverish and wetter by the second, and when he lets go a low wolf’s growl, I know that he needs me. He needs to be close. To feel our connection. To reestablish it. God, I need it too.

“Do you need me like I need you?” I ask him quietly, almost pleadingly. “Do you plan to gorge on every inch of me like I plan to gorge on every inch of you?”

His words are textured, his face intently serious. “Have I ever given you doubt that I won’t?”

I shake my head and then, because I need him, because I want him, because I love him, I slowly peel off my top.

I need him now more than ever. I need to know he’s here for me, and I need to show him I’m here for him. I need to feel his love like it’s his forgiveness . . .

Something my mother never taught me, but Mackenna will.

Because of the way he looks at me now—accepting me with all my darkness and all my pink as he lifts my hand and looks at the ring I’m wearing—I know he feels my acceptance like a brand as well.

I undress for him and then quietly ask him, “What do you want to do with me? I’m your prize tonight, so winner’s choice.” Then I stand there, naked except for a little smile.

“What did I win?” he asks cockily, opening his belt.

“Me.”

“Is that so?”

He drops his pants to the floor, and he’s so beautiful that my mouth waters at the sight of all his tanned skin. All of that for me, to devour like candy.

With a soft grin he reaches out and briefly brushes his knuckles across my nipples, always so damn pesky and puckered up like pencil erasers. And then he curls his fingers around my breast and leans over.

He sucks one, latching on to it with a wet sucking sound, like a baby would, then my other nipple receives the same treatment. And my *? He slowly starts fingering my *. More wet sucking sounds coming from the way my body wants to suck his finger in me. “You’re so beautiful, so gorgeous. My perfect pink wicked little witch. I’m going to make love to you tonight. I’m starting over with you—starting now. Tonight. My plan is to lick my way up those long legs, right up to your *, then give a good long suck to your tits. You like?”

“Oh, please,” I moan, undulating my body as I slide my hands up his muscular arms.

He grins—no, not grins. It’s that sexier-than-thou smirk on his lips that makes me want to bite his dirty, sexy mouth off. I start nibbling, and the sound he makes drives me mad with lust.

“Kenna.”

His hand covers one of my breasts, his breath on my face, his eyes holding mine as he kisses one of my temples. “Feels like the first time, doesn’t it?”

I nod and exhale, but it’s not him making me nervous.

It’s me.

I want to say it. I want him to know it. I gulp back the words I want—need—to say, but he waits for them. Like he’s waited for them in the past.

I’m ready. I’m so ready and frightened, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s the one, the only one, for me. My hands on his delicious, warm skin say it first. My lips brush his muscles, saying it next.

“Kenna . . .”

He groans. He seems to know. “Say it, Pandora. Say it like you mean it.”

My chest rises and falls as he brushes his thumbs over the crests of my breasts so my nipples poke him. My panting breaths come faster and faster. “If I say it, promise to say it back immediately,” I plead.

“I make no guarantees,” he teases as he pinches and tweaks my nipples, and the movements cause my * to contract with wanton little ripples.

“Kenna,” I groan, gripping the back of his head, pulling him to me. “I love you.”

I kiss him, pulling his lips to mine, and suddenly I don’t need him to say it.

I need for me to say it . . . and say it . . . and say it. Say it until he asks me to shut up.

I need to say it for all the times I didn’t.

“I love you.” I slide my hands around his shoulders, up to his head, angling my mouth to take his lips again. A shudder rocks his lean, powerful body. “I love you,” I whisper, both seductively and tenderly, fingers stroking down his back, gripping his ass, then one hand comes around to stroke his erection.

He groans. God, I love when he groans. The huskiness in his voice. “Yeah, Pink, show me. Show me you want me. Tell me you want me. How you love wanting me.”

“I love what you do to me, how I want you,” I murmur, rasping my lips against the stubble of his jaw before I nibble his lips again.

I feel him stiffen when I stroke my fist up his length. “Argh, baby,” he growls, sounding pained and yet instinctively rocking himself deeper into my hand. “You’re a f*cking little tease, aren’t you?” He rams a hand between my legs and slides the middle finger between my * lips. “A sweet, hot, horny little tease who just wants to be fingered like this.”