What would those dark hands do? Would they leave perfect black handprints against my ivory skin? The image was too powerful to deny. I locked my gaze on him, only breaking it for a moment as I tore my sweater up over my head.
Lust made his eyes heavy as he watched me shed the plain white t-shirt and work the snap of my jeans. I tugged them off and tossed them to the floor with aggression. “Okay, done. Put your filthy goddamn hands on me.”
Fire flared so hot, it made the room scorching. He came at me, but I held my ground. His hands lifted to cup my face—wait, no. That wasn’t his intent. I inhaled sharply when he put both hands around my neck.
I fought the instinct to break his hold with a counter maneuver and deliver a strike to his solar plexus. There wasn’t any tension in his fingers as his hands wrapped around my neck, they simply rested there. It was dominating, but it was exciting, too.
When his hands released me, Silas made a noise of satisfaction. The sight of his black handprints on my neck obviously pleased him. My pulse sped to a million miles an hour. Did these handprints ringing my neck look like a collar? Like he owned me?
“The bra,” he said on a hurried breath. “Take it off.” He gazed at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d seen, and my hands moved instantly. The clasp was undone and I slipped the straps down my shoulders, letting the bra fall away. My exposed breasts felt heavy and aching for his touch, which he seemed eager to do.
He filled the weight of one in his hand, pressing his dark, rough palm against my pale skin. As he peeled his fingers away, we both looked down and admired the perfect gray handprint he’d left. God, it was sexy. He instantly did the other breast so I had a matching set.
“That looks fucking amazing,” he said. “Stay right like that.”
Silas fled to the sink and washed his hands as quickly as possible, sending soap and water droplets flying as he scrubbed furiously, and then dried off with a handful of paper towels.
His camera was tugged out of a bag, turned on, and settings were adjusted like he was being timed. He turned the camera sideways, and snapped portrait shots, moving swiftly my direction. “Turn so your back’s to the table,” he said. “Put your hands on the edge and lean back.”
I preferred to give the orders, but I didn’t mind it when I was in his artistic hands. I gripped the edge of the wood and arched my back, jutting my breasts up toward the ceiling.
“Perfect, just like that.”
I couldn’t hear the camera shutter over the rap music. The aggressive, dirty song had annoyed me at first, but now it lent itself to the atmosphere. It was intensely erotic.
When the song changed to a new one, and Silas had snapped several dozen pictures, I became impatient. He was down on a knee at my side, shooting at an upward angle, and my neck grew tired of holding my head back.
“Enough,” I ordered. The irritated emotions lingered and were ready to find an outlet.
He climbed to his feet so he towered over me, and his expression . . . it was raw and primal. “I’m not done. Get your ass on the table.”
I stared at him, brilliantly stunned. Did he have a death wish? “No.”
He leaned over and set the camera far across the table, safely away from both me and the edge, and then moved the canvas he’d been working on, sliding it to the side. Without warning, he stepped between my feet and scooped his hands under my ass, lifting me up. I was plunked down on the table, hard and with a loud thump. My mouth fell open and I prepared for fire to come spewing out of it.
There was plenty of fire in his expression already. Dark, and sexual.
And words failed me when he undid his belt, sliding it free from the loops. I sat, glued in place, as he coiled each end around a fist. My body tensed the split-second before he used it as a lasso behind my neck, but he’d done it simply to pull me into his devastating kiss.
I’d been yanked tight against him so my legs were wrapped around his waist. The tough fabric of his jeans teased me through my panties when he rubbed his erection against my clit.
He wanted to play like this? Great. I was game.
Chapter
SEVENTEEN
The belt went slack and fell from his hands. I pushed my breasts against Silas’s t-shirt clad chest and reached over his shoulder, grabbing a handful of cotton on his back, tugging the shirt over his head. He flung it away and came back to me hungry. He wrapped his hands on my wrists and placed my palms on his warm, tattooed skin.
The music, the situation, and his actions were the perfect storm to set me off. I dug my nails in and raked them down his chest, leaving pink track marks, adding to his patterns. The m
uscles in his jaw tightened and he grimaced, but a moody Silas was a hot-as-fuck Silas.
His grip on me strengthened. It was the only warning he gave me before lifting my wrists and slamming me back, pinning me to the tabletop.
“You want it rough?” he teasingly snarled in my ear. “Let’s do rough. I’ll fuck this pussy so hard you’ll feel my dick inside you for days.”
Holy shit. I turned my head to him and grinned like a fool. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”