Fury on Fire (Devil's Rock #3)(60)

TWENTY-THREE




The offer hovered between them like a great big swelling balloon.

His eyes dilated, the deep brown darkening nearly as black as his irises. Not a sound passed between them. The air in her lungs froze, trapped.

Did she really just say that?

She opened her mouth to retract the words, to pop that balloon, to say anything to take them away or erase what she had just said. But no sound escaped.

His big hands dropped to span her waist. “You want me to ruin you?” His gravelly voice rolled over her. “I can do that.”

She squeaked as he lifted her up off the ground. Before she realized his intent, he was carrying her into her house. He walked them right through the front door, kicking it shut behind them.

He plopped her on her kitchen table. She was suddenly intensely grateful that she’d purchased a high kitchen table. They fit perfectly. He wedged his body between her thighs, his hands sliding up the outsides and under her skirt.

“Nice skirt.” He lifted his head to look her over. Reaching between them, he flipped the silky flounce along her collar. “And blouse. You dress like this for him?”

“I dressed like this for . . . a date.”

“You look expensive. Untouchable.” His gaze left a blistering trail as it roamed over her. “Not the kind of girl I usually touch.”

But he had touched her. And then he said he wouldn’t again. But he was now. So what were they doing? She didn’t know how to respond. Her chest was too tight, an invisible fist squeezing her lungs. Fortunately, he didn’t seem concerned with her reply. His hands kept moving, fingers diving under the outer edge of her panties, skimming along her hips and down to the crease between her thighs and crotch.

“So tell me about it.” Gripping her hips, he yanked her closer, dragging her against the front of him, where his member already bulged against rough denim.

“About what?”

“Your date.” The drawl of his deep voice scraped over her. “Did he kiss you? Touch you here?” He cupped her sex, his palm searing hot over her folds.

She opened her mouth and made a gurgling sound. She couldn’t even form coherent words when he was touching her.

His thumb dipped, tracing the seam of her lips.

She gasped sharply.

“So slick,” he said thickly.

And she was already wet. Embarrassingly so.

His thumb parted her, pressing into her wetness, easing a fraction inside her.

“Your bedroom?” He jerked his head toward the staircase.

She nodded jerkily.

Again, he picked her up like she wasn’t the Amazon she knew herself to be and marched up the stairs, her legs solidly wrapped around him.

He didn’t even hesitate to survey her room. Not that there was much to assess. He dropped her down on the bed and then stood back. He reached behind him and pulled his shirt over his head in a smooth move. He moved like some kind of jungle cat. Effortless and graceful. Her heartbeat quickened. It was crazy. This big beautiful man with his ripped-up body and dragon tattoo wrapping around his torso was nothing she had ever visualized standing in her room, over her bed, over her.

Her eyes locked on the stark beauty of his features, the intensity of his liquid dark eyes. She tore her gaze away. She fixed her stare on his chest, too overcome with nerves to look at his face again. But then she was just left staring at all that hard, golden skin and that did absolutely nothing to help her runaway nerves.

“Done staring, sweetheart?”

She nodded and shook her head, heat slapping her in the cheeks.

“Good. Because I need to get my hands on you again.” He came down over her, his arms caging her in, hands tangling in her hair as his head dipped toward her. “And while I’m at it . . . my mouth, too.” His lips descended and everything else was lost except this. Him and his blistering-hot lips.

His hands shifted to cup her face, each finger a searing imprint. She gasped at the hot press of his palms on her cheeks. His hands. His mouth. His tongue stroking her bottom lip. She was full of the taste of him, the sensation. His weight melted over her, sinking her deeper into the bed. There was no mistaking his power, his strength. It radiated off him in waves. It was heady and a little frightening.

He kissed her long and hard and deep, his lips coaxing and persuasive. He was a drug and she was addicted, kissing him back, matching his movements, growing bolder. Her lips went tingly-numb and still she kissed him. Hard. All her barriers just dropped away like insubstantial dandelion seeds lost to the wind.

“North,” she moaned as he tore his lips away and dragged them down her throat. Her head spun. Somehow his fingers undid the buttons on her blouse. He shoved the fabric over her shoulders with a whisper of sound.

At least she was wearing one of her prettier bras. Not that he was about letting her wear it for very long. He reached behind her and unhooked the clasp in a deft, experienced move.

He tugged the bra down, freeing her breasts. She didn’t even have time to feel self-conscious. He closed his lips around a nipple, tugging the peak into his warm mouth and rolling it between his teeth and tongue until it was pebble hard and aching. She gasped and arched. He turned and lavished his mouth on her other breast, leaving her thrashing and wild on the mattress. Her sex clenched and throbbed so intensely tears leaked out from her eyes.

She was barely aware of the hands sliding under her skirt—and then he gripped the edge of her panties, stepping back from the bed so that he could pull them down her legs. Then she was wholly aware of things happening south of the border.