Deep (Chicago Underground #8)(36)

I tugged at his suit jacket. He let it slide off his shoulders, but he still had a dress shirt and slacks in the way. I fumbled at his belt, unseeing.

He took my wrists and pressed them against the back of the seat. “Let me.”

Part of me wanted to fight him, to insist on undressing him, touching him. But the other part of me wanted to give up control, to let him do as he pleased—to see where he would take me.

So I kept my arms by my sides even when he reared back. My lids felt heavy.

“Don’t move,” he said roughly. “Let me look at you.”

“I’m not moving,” I gasped, but I soon realized this wasn’t the hard part.

One large hand palmed the inside of my thigh, spreading me open. He studied the place between my thighs with unnerving intensity. It was too dark to see much detail, the moonlight through the window painting my skin milky white, the shadows a pure black. He made me wait, exposed and vulnerable, while he drank in the sight of my body.

When he leaned forward, it wasn’t to kiss me again or to kiss my breasts. No, he leaned low, bending his head to place a kiss on my stomach. Then lower, to the place above my mound.

“That’s right, kitten. Let me touch you. Let me lick you, f*ck you. You’ll let me do anything I want to you, won’t you?”

I shuddered, almost climaxing from his words alone. “Philip.”

Powerful arms hooked under my knees and dragged me to the end of the seat, so I fell back. His long lick wrenched a hoarse scream from me. He started at the bottom of my sex and ended at my clit, curling his tongue until my toes curled too. He did it again and again, relentless, his arms holding me open so I couldn’t have any relief from the acute pleasure.

I twisted my body, struggling to get away. He held me firm. There was no escaping him, no mercy.

My fingernails scraped the short bristles of his hair, the curve of his scalp. I thought it might have been too rough, hurting him, but the sound he made was of tortured pleasure. “More,” he said roughly, and I imagined a Viking invader, demanding his due, whatever he wanted.

The gentle tug of his teeth on my soft flesh ensured I would obey, and I clung to him with everything I had. It didn’t feel like we were in a car anymore, but a sea—the waves crashing over me, lifting my body only to slam me back down.

His hand spread my folds wide, calluses deliciously rough against my slick skin. His tongue delved inside me rhythmically, the way I imagined his cock would do.

And then I didn’t have to guess anymore. He kissed his way up my body, across my stomach and between my breasts. He kissed me flush on the mouth, and I tasted the salt of my arousal.

His fingers worked at his belt and slacks, the backs of his fingers brushing against my slick, oversensitized flesh. My heart pounded. This was happening.

“Philip, wait.”

“I’m done waiting, kitten.” He put his hand over my sex, his touch both intimate and possessive. “This is mine. Mine to eat, mine to f*ck. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you let other men touch you here.”

I shook my head. He was right, goddamn him.

Male satisfaction suffused his expression. “That’s right. You knew you were mine, all this time. I was watching you, but you were waiting for me, weren’t you?”

I let out a sob, because he was right about that too. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

“Shh,” he soothed. “Shhh. This was always going to happen.”

As if to prove his point, he pressed his cock against the entrance of my sex. The exquisite burn made me gasp in protest, but he pushed harder into me, inexorable, unstoppable, my body strung tight on the tip. I reached for him, frantic to hold on to something, to someone, and he growled his approval.

He didn’t give me any reprieve—he pulled back and thrust inside me, deeper this time. The discomfort rose to fever pitch, and my body twisted to get away, to get some distance. He was too hard, too thick. He reached too deep.

“It’s too much. Please, it’s too much.”

“You feel it too,” he whispered. “From the moment I saw you sleeping on a chair in my house. I didn’t know who you were. I just knew you were mine.”

It hurt too much. The burn didn’t ease. “I don’t know if I can—”

“You can. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”

Powerful hands held my hips in place at the edge of the seat, fingers leaving marks on my skin. He pulled back and pushed in again, body straining to go farther—and even now our bodies weren’t flush together.

He changed the angle, tilting me so that my legs spread farther, my sex canted toward him. The upper half of my body was pushed back, held up only by his arm bracing me. I felt like a butterfly with my wings pinned to a wooden slab—violated and torn, made beautiful for him.

His next thrust reached all the way inside me, ripping a cry of shock and agony from me.

His groan was a dark symphony. “God, kitten. You’re all around me.”

I could feel my flesh pulsing, stretching, struggling to accommodate him. His cock flexed inside me, feeling nothing but pleasure. That defined us—this unlikely pairing, the reason why we could never be together. He would always be a powerful criminal, and I would always be the broken girl he once saved. He wanted me, he needed me, but he could never see me as an equal. I took his pleasure and his pain. I did whatever he asked me, because for the stretch of this trip, in the space of this leather seat, I wanted to be the kind of woman who could be with a man like him—submissive and intensely sensual.