Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

I should hold out, I should keep away from him—only I can’t. Not when he’s so close I can smell his cinnamon scent blending with the musk of his arousal, when I feel his erection pressed on my thigh like a hot iron rod and those remarkable jade-blue eyes lock briefly with mine before drifting lower, checking out every exposed inch of me—from my mouth, to my neck and my aching breasts, the tips painfully hard as I throb deep inside. Needing him to touch me.

Hard muscles flex in his arms as he lowers himself on one elbow, freeing his other hand to stroke down my arm and brush over my ribs. It tickles, and then he strokes his hand under my breast, cupping it, and I forget how to breathe. It fits perfectly in his large palm, and I watch as if from a distance his thumb circle my nipple, drawing it into a hard, tight peak. Pleasure streaks through me, a lightning bolt of heat straight to my core, and I arch on the bed.

“Jesus, Embers, you’re hot,” he breathes, his finger torturing my nipple, sending bolt after bolt of need through me. “Look what you’ve been hiding under those pretty flouncy tops. You shouldn’t hide. You’re so damn sexy.”

His words make me shiver, and when he switches to my other breast, I think I’m going to self-combust with arousal. I shift on the bed, needing something, anything to relieve the ache between my legs.

“I want…” You. I want to see him naked, run my hands over his inked chest and arms, see his hard-rock erection that’s digging into my thigh as he shifts. See him writhe in pleasure, see him lose control and admit… admit it’s because of me.

Yeah, as if I’m something special to him. I’m probably just another notch on his bedpost.

Too much thinking, and his hand has stilled, covering my breast, a warm weight.

“You with me, Embe

rs?” he rasps, the blue-green of his eyes swallowed by black. It’s a hungry look, and no matter how I try to bring myself back down to earth, I’m sucked into another eddy of desire.

“And you?” I quiver under his touch, as his rough palm lightly scrapes on my aching nipple and then moves down to my stomach.

“I’m right here.” He bends his head closer, as his fingers tiptoe past my bellybutton to the hem of my pants and dip underneath, right into my panties. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Then he covers my mouth with his, swallowing my startled moan as his fingers part my folds and dip inside me, bold and demanding, searching. Filling me up, stretching and edging me on until I gather up my knees to lift my hips, take his fingers deeper.

And all the while, he’s kissing me, thrusting his tongue inside my mouth, mimicking the movement of his fingers, and it feels so good. So incredibly good that I’m hovering on that fine edge between too much and right there, the pressure cresting until I cry out in his mouth, my hips rocking, and fireworks go off behind my eyes.

Oh God, never felt anything like it. My few encounters never prepared me for this. His fingers keep pumping and the spasms in my core are so intense they hurt at first, then the pleasure skyrockets and I cry out again, helpless under his touch.

He breaks the kiss, panting softly, gazing at me with a bemused and slightly wide-eyed expression on his face.

Did I just come twice from his fingers inside me? Jesus and crap on a cracker. My body is still shaking, trying to come to terms with what happened. Could it be because I want him so much, because of the pressure building inside me day after day?

Rationalizing isn’t helping, especially when he slowly withdraws his fingers, brings them up, and smells them. It’s my turn to stare at him, at the dark ripple of need in his gaze. His hard-on is pressing against me, urgent and hot, and that sexy, lazy grin curls up one corner of his mouth.

“Did’ya like that, kitten?” he rumbles. “I wonder what else you might like…”

“Kitten?” My voice comes out kinda squeaky, and I wince. Very sexy.

“You make these soft mewling noises.” He wipes a finger over his lower lip, licks it. “Sweet.”

Oh God, he didn’t just… He did.

Jesus, I’m getting hot and aroused all over again, and I have no clue what to say. I’ve never been with a guy who seems to know exactly what he’s doing to me, how much I enjoy it, and yeah… and who seems to enjoy it, too.

“Tell me,” he says, although the wicked gleam in his eyes informs me he doesn’t need such enlightenment. “Tell me what you’d like.”

Problem is, I don’t know. What he did was awesome, mind-blowing, but my experience is restricted to frantic fumbling in the dark, struggling with condoms, and quick, unpleasurable penetrations. I always thought that’s how it was supposed to be. That my own hand is the only way to come off.

So I say the only thing that has been on my mind since he started kissing and touching me.

“Take your T-shirt off.”

He pulls back, his grin frozen, his gaze hardening. “Why?”

“I want to look at you.” I run my hand over his hard pec, over the thin cotton, and feel the contour of his nipple piercing. It makes my throat a tiny bit drier. Christ, the Sonoran Desert has to be tropical by comparison. “Touch you.”

Something shifts in his gaze, and his eyes soften. Makes me wonder what he thought I was after, but conscious thought ceases when he lifts himself up just enough to rip off his T-shirt and let it drop to the floor.

Holy shit, Batman. Looking at this boy’s chest never gets old. I reverently brush my fingertips over those pierced nipples, tugging lightly on a silver hoop, and he hisses, powerful abs tightening and contracting in his washboard stomach.