Zane (Inked Brotherhood 3)

Holy shitballs. My cock hardens so fast I gasp and have to steady myself on the doorframe. I’m dizzy from all the blood rushing south.

Mine. She’s mine.

Fucking crazy.

I round the table and reach for her. She’s singing again, her voice low and clear like a crystal bell. She’s shaking her hips to the rhythm, and her heart-shaped little ass is like a flashing beacon.

Grinning, I slap it.

She screams and jumps a foot off the ground, knocking into the counter. I grab her before she falls.

“Hey,” I say, pulling her to me. Can’t keep the stupid grin off my face.

“Jesus! You scared the crap out of me.” She pulls the earbuds out and glares.

“Zane. Just Zane.” I wink and am rewarded with her laughter, light and pure like water trickling over rocks and moss.

She’s still panting, but she comes to me willingly. She starts lifting her hands, to put them around my neck, but stops, uncertainty flashing across her face.

My jaw clenches. That uncertainty is my fault. “It’s okay,” I say. “Right now it’s okay.”

I tug on her hands, loop them around my neck and slip my arms around her waist, sighing in pleasure when her slight body presses along mine. Nothing so chaste and simple should have the right to feel so damn good.

Her mouth is so close, a sweet bow, that I lean in and lick it. “God, you taste good.” She tastes of strawberries, and I wonder if she was eating ice cream before I came in. “So good.” I press my lips to her, and she opens them, letting me in.

Our tongues twine together, and I groan, dragging her closer, until she’s pressed to my hard-on. God, kissing is awesome. I’ve been missing out all this time.

Then again, I also managed to keep the memories at bay, and now… Christ, don’t wanna think about sleeping tonight, if the previous nights are anything to go by. Fucking nightmares.

She pulls back, breathless, her lips red and puffy, and I swipe my tongue over them, unable to keep away.

Giggling, she puts a hand on my chest, pushing me off. “Slow down. I’m cooking. The food is going to burn.”

“Let it burn.” I attack her mouth again, and she gives in, kissing me back, scattering my thoughts, burying my memories. We kiss and kiss, and as she rubs against me, I know I have to stop, or I’ll come on the spot. “Fuck.”

She laughs again, and my lips twitch in response. “Let me turn off the heat. It’s ready, I think.”

She twists in my arms and takes off the lid of the pot, grabs a spoon and stirs. The heavenly smell hits me again, and my stomach growls like a rabid wolf.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I look over her shoulder at the brown mass inside the pot, and I trail my hands down her hips. “What is it?”

“Dakota special,” she says. “Aren’t you hungry?”

What, she didn’t hear my stomach growl? “Sure I am.”

“Then have a seat at the table.”

I nod, but I’m again distracted by the way her body moves under my palms, the smoothness of her skin and the fact my shirt is riding now high, baring her sexy ass to my eyes.

“Sit,” she says again, and I groan, letting her go and taking my seat. My hard-on swells, and I try to adjust it inside my pants. It’s hot that she gets all authoritative with me.

What the fuck, Zane, seriously? I lick my lips and try to figure this out as she brings the dishes to the table, filled with the brown mush that looks weird but smells delicious. She’s not taking control physically. She’s only telling me to sit, so she can serve me food.

Is it because she’s dressed in my T-shirt, naked underneath, that it’s so sexy that she orders me around? Or because this is a safe place—my kitchen, my pot, my spoon, my table?

Maybe it feels safe when she tells me what she wants—so I know I’m not hurting her? Could be. Who the hell knows how my fucked-up mind works?

“Eat before it gets cold,” she says, sitting across from me. The shirt has slipped off one shoulder. I can see her nipples, small tight buds, pressing through the fabric. Her lips close around the spoon.