The Revenge Pact (Kings of Football #1)(73)

My voice is muffled, and I can’t look at him when I say the vulnerable words. “Listen to me. We’re here. We’re under the stars. You can’t lie to the stars. We have a connection and you know it. Life doesn’t give out a lot of moments like this. Just kiss me, just kiss me or walk away.”

Long moments pass, and I look up at him.

“Anastasia…” A wild light grows in his eyes.

My hands clench the material of his shirt. “Do you think I’ve ever begged a man to kiss me? I haven’t! River, just—”

His lips swoop down and claim me.

He slants his mouth across mine, and the first taste of him is like a drug. Blood rushes through my veins.

We kiss.

And kiss.

He groans as he nips at my bottom lip, tugging on it, then delving back inside my mouth. My hands slide up his chest, mapping him, tracing the muscles there before caressing his shoulders, circling around his neck. My fingers carve through his hair as our tongues tangle.

His hand drops to my waist, to the bare skin of my midriff, then slides to my ass, his fingers pressing into my skin like a hot brand. Heat sinks into my bones, lust and need rising like a wave. His tongue lashes at me as he picks me up and puts me against one of the partitions. I sit on the ledge as my legs wrap around his waist.

He moves up and cups my face, his hands pushing my head back as he owns my mouth. His kisses are different from Donovan’s, vicious, steeped in urgency, a hot flame that incinerates.

He’s desperate.

A man on the verge.

We go rocket fast, kissing, tasting, eating at each other, our breaths heavy and fast, our hands roaming over skin, to take it all in.

It’s not pretty.

It’s dirty and ugly and so fucking good.

A primal sound comes from his throat as he comes up for air. “Tell me to stop, Anastasia, please,” he says breathlessly as his teeth graze my throat. He sucks at the skin, hard.

“Don’t stop,” I gasp.

“I can’t…” He kisses me again, savagely, frustration and anger in his touch, a well of emotion seeping from every erotic stroke of his tongue against mine, as if I’m his torment and his salvation.

Warmth pools deeper in my pelvis. I’m hot for him. My body arches into him, my hips grinding against his hard length. He hisses, his fingers going underneath my panties and finding bare skin. He kneads my ass until I know I’ll have handprints there tomorrow.

He rips the hoodie off my arms, his lips never leaving mine. With frantic movements, his hands skate up my stomach, shoving my sweater up. My nipples bead inside my bra, aching. His mouth closes over one, his teeth scraping the lace. He pushes the flimsy material aside and his lips latch onto my breast.

His head tilts as his dilated eyes meet mine. He sticks his thumb in my mouth and I suck it, rolling it around with my tongue. He groans against my nipple, his cock pressing into me.

A ringing sound comes from somewhere, going on and on, and I ignore it and kiss him harder. I unsnap his jeans, undo the zipper, and slip my hands inside. He’s hard and thick and long, just like I’d knew he’d be. I palm him from his root to his mushroom-shaped crown, rubbing the wetness at the tip. An urge to taste him hits me, to wrap my tongue around him and suck him down. He groans, his body tightening, his breathing ragged as he pumps into my hand, his mouth open on my neck.

He picks me up and carries me to one of the couches around the fire. Our mouths cling as he lands on top of me, and finally, finally, I’m under him. He ravages me with his mouth, and it hurts in the best way, the scrape of his jaw, the pull of his teeth as he bites my lips, my throat, my shoulder. My sweater disappears. My bra vanishes.

I rip his shirt off and gasp, my fingers shaking as I trace the perfection of his skin, the hallowed hills and valleys of his muscles.

And when his skin touches mine…we groan at the same time.

“Anastasia…” He slides down and pulls up my skirt. He tears my panties to the side, impatiently, and exposes my slick center. He growls, his chest rumbling as he glances at me, his eyes black. He’s lost, he’s gone, and he’s with me, he’s with me.

“Stop me,” he says, his voice like gravel. “Fucking stop me.”

“No.”

He bends his head and licks me, his hands clenching and unclenching on my thighs. I grip his scalp as he lashes at me like a man starved. His lips and fingers and tongue and breath become my master. He devours me, a ferocious lover.

One finger, then two are inside me as he flicks my clit with his tongue. He fingers me and grinds his hips into the seat and murmurs filthy things against my skin: how wet I am, how hot I am, how he wants to fuck me hard, how he wants his cock inside me so bad, how he’s never going to let me get away from him.

That ringing sound comes again.

It’s a phone. His.

It’s on the ground next to my sweater.

I grab his shoulders, kneading them, encouraging him. He says my name with reverence, with such longing, and I can’t breathe, tensing, as tingles build at my spine, my hips moving with him. When we fuck, it’s going to be insane, over the top, and then he does something with his fingers, fast and hard on my clit, I shout, and I’m coming, coming, my core clenching around him, spasming as my legs tighten around his head.

“River, River…” I pull him up and kiss him. My hands go to his ass, palming him, then his waist as I shove his jeans to his hips. I took things slow with Donovan, but this—this is something else entirely. This is us. “Now, please.”