Still Not Over You(49)

He’s tumbling me onto my back, his naked body shifting gloriously over mine, taut-stretched and tawny and hard. His weight is hot as a furnace, burning into me.

Holy hell. There’s nothing to protect me from him; nothing to shield me from how every inch of my body electrifies just being near him.

He pins me with his bulk, barely holding himself up on braced arms that strain to hold the heaviness of packed muscle, forearms drawn tight and veins ridging against his skin, his tattoos.

And when he presses against me, his rousing cock slides against my belly, slipping lower. Teasing me until I can’t think of anything but wanting that feeling when he slides deep, takes me over, makes me wild.

“If I go swimming, Reb, I can’t do this,” he finishes, and leans down to capture my mouth, enveloping me fully in his stone-fire warmth. “We both know that'd be a damn shame. You're so fucking wet for me.”

He strokes between my legs, winning a sharp moan from my mouth. His fingers are already dangerously familiar with my body. I whimper against him, bucking my clit into his hands, which pull back to a comfortable, teasing distance.

Good morning can't even cover this. My naked breasts crushed against his chest, my entire body vulnerable, twined, until I feel like a rabbit caught in the wolf’s grasp.

And he consumes me – touching every inch of me, finding every place on my body that turns me from a woman into a lava flow of pure desire.

He’s the only one who’s ever known how to do this to me; how to possess me so utterly I just lose myself and can only cling to him for some kind of safe mooring. Always gasping for more as he traces me with his fingers, his tongue.

Sweet Jesus, his tongue.

If I thought he had a magic ability to light me up all kinds of ways with just the words bouncing off it, I've learned it isn't half of what he can do when it's against my skin.

Landon's mouth owns me. Leaves burning hot kisses and angry little bite marks over my chest, my stomach, my hips, my thighs, then delves between my legs.

There, lost in my folds, is where he pulls me apart. Sharp, clutching pleasure comes as his tongue circles my clit, traces my labia, dips inside, drinks from me like every last drop he coaxes from my flesh will leave him intoxicated.

His mouth works my pussy to the brink. Expert teeth pull me apart with a growl, make my clit a willing prisoner for his tongue, all while his stubble leaves delicious burn marks on my thighs. I ride his face for all I'm worth, before I'm whimpering his name.

“Landon!” Oh, hell. “Landon, fuck!”

I can't.

I need to come on his face, if only he'd let me. But this man knows my own flesh better than me.

By the time he lifts me up, wraps my thighs around his waist, slides his cock deep inside my body, I’m ready to fly right off the edge. He takes me in slick, deep, rhythmic strokes that make my heart race and my blood burn like napalm, turning me into someone I don’t know.

I’m not one of my heroines, wanton and sure of her sexuality.

I'm not this crazy, wild girl who becomes a complete sex addict for anyone – much less this beast shaped like a man who's swung my heart wild like a kettlebell for the past ten years.

I'm totally not surrendering every fiber of my being to Landon Strauss and all he's been: lover, hater, destroyer, protector, friend, foe, best and worst and final word.

But actually, when I'm stripped completely bare, shaking on his naked body, I can't deny the truth.

I am.

With him, I feel so much I can't escape it, can’t deny it, can’t control it – and I writhe with pure and utter abandon as he plunges deeper, harder, faster, pushing closer and closer to his end.

I watch that lost, tortured, beautiful expression taking over his face while he's holding me. I don’t even know what pushes me over – his touch, his manic strokes, or the way he looks at me – all his human wilds tethered to me.

For me.

I just know that when my body goes tight around him, when he hits the perfect spot inside that makes my vision go white and my breaths turn ragged...

He’s ruined me.

He's ruining me right now as he locks his arm tight, fisting my hair, growling his pleasure as he drives deep one more time and unloads his pleasure into mine.

He's ruined me forever.

He’s ruined me for anyone else, and I’m gladly letting myself be torn apart.





*



He’s also made walking in a straight line difficult.

I should be used to this, after the last two weeks, but when I get up and try to follow him into the shower my legs are pure jelly and my spine feels like cooked spaghetti.

He knows it, too, judging from the smug look he keeps giving me. Ass.

But he’s my jerk-ass.

Sort of.

I totter into the bathroom, and twenty minutes later, he’s got to lift me out of the shower after pinning me against the wall. The man's libido is relentless. I can't show a flash of skin anymore if I don't want to be absolutely ravaged – and, of course, I do.

I'm trapped face-first against cool tile while hot spray pours down over us both and my voice rings off the shower walls. He's busy making these low, animalistic sounds against my back while he ruts against me, skin to slick skin, turning my depths into a swollen-soft mass of silk that thrills at every touch, every stroke, every vicious thrust.