This man is a human truck. He’s sinfully broad and sculpted, every muscle as ruggedly hard as a broken cliff face. Every time I’ve had him on my table, I’ve wanted to touch so bad and couldn’t.
I can now.
And I do, smoothing my hands over him, learning his shape by branding him into my palms.
Wherever my hands don’t touch, my body makes up for it, pressing in close just to feel him from head to toe, to feel how his heat melts into my breasts, my thighs, my belly.
“So burn me,” I whisper and capture his mouth again.
He smothers me in another growling kiss.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so shameless.
So wanton.
So needy.
But I’ve never been afraid to chase what I want.
And what I want right now—maybe for life—is him.
Especially when he backs me up against the counter, shoves me against it with my spine arching, his body pinning me, making me gloriously aware that he’s wearing nothing but those thin cotton boxer-briefs.
And they’re doing nothing to hide how much he wants me, too.
His cock presses hard against my stomach.
He’s so tall the thickness of it almost slides up between my breasts, over my ribs. I can’t help a wicked impulse as I shimmy my body against him, writhing as I twine my tongue with his, wet-slick thrusts of locked mouths mating with the rhythm as I roll myself against his cock and savor his shuddering groan, loving how his entire body tenses under my palms.
“Peace,” he groans, that ladykiller voice rolling over my name like lust distilled into honey whiskey. “What’re you trying to do to me, woman?”
“Not quite sure yet,” I breathe against his lips, brushing my mouth against his in little taunts. “But is it working?”
I let my bravery make me bolder still. My fingers dance across his side and then slip down between us, folding over the burning-hot flesh inside the cotton, stroking his length.
“Fuck.” He slams his hands against the counter to either side of me, gripping so hard his knuckles go white, his eyes closing, his jaw pinched, breathing like a winded animal.
A gorgeous, glorious, wild creature.
And he’s putty in my hands as I stroke him—feeling every throb of his cock against my palm, his underwear so thin. I feel every ridge and vein, just how slick he is with pre-come as I grind my hand against him.
Yes, I’m greedy.
So flipping greedy I devour his face, adoring the way his lips hang slack on panting growls, his expression frozen in bliss.
I’ve always been good at making people feel good with my hands.
But it’s never been as heady as this.
I’m pushing my luck, though—I can tell by the tension rippling through his shoulders, the way his fingers dig at the counter, his teeth clenched as he rocks into my hand.
I circle my thumb under his cockhead and give him a tight squeeze just to feel how hard he is.
My gut’s so tight, so hot, and God…
It’s getting me soaked just touching him, sweetness running between my thighs, my body clenching up with this fever.
Because I’m doing this to him.
He’s this hard for me.
I’m the one driving him to the edge.
…and I’m the reason he snaps a second later.
I give him one more squeeze, one more stroke, and he jerks his hips forward roughly, throwing his head back with a feral growl.
“Enough,” he bites off. “Goddammit, you’ll come for me first.”
Then his hands are on me—lifting me up, gripping my ass, fingers digging in.
Instinctively, I wrap my legs around his waist as he hoists me off my feet.
My head whips back with pleasure as he fits so perfectly between my thighs, the bulk of him spreading me open, leaving me throbbing and empty and exposed. I’m at his every mercy, his cock grinding against my jeans, my panties, so close to fucking me I can’t stand it.
“Oh God, Blake.” I bury my face against his throat, licking at his pulse, tasting the sweat of his skin and digging my nails into the back of his neck as I rub against him.
He’s got me in heat so easily.
The feel of his cock in my palm, and all this pent-up desire that’s been building up is bursting out brighter than the sun, deeper than a riptide, hotter than a wildfire, and sweeping over me in all its sweet insanity.
“Just hold on, you little wildcat,” he gasps, biting my shoulders, his teeth ripping my shirt aside to find skin.
I’m gasping as he turns to carry me upstairs, every step punctuated by another rolling thrust of his hips until he’s moving us in sinful rhythm. Each stride brings us closer, sharp friction, and I’m trembling, my thighs clenched as I ride those waves of movement, practically riding him, arching myself into him and dragging my wet panties to the scrape of his hardness so I can feel him.