“You sure about this?” he rasps. “Tell me now. I can’t fucking stop if we keep going.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” I whisper, running a hand through his damp hair. “I’m clean. As soon as I heard about Jean-Paul sleeping with someone else, I went to the doctor.”
“I’m clean as a whistle, too.” He shakes his head and curses. “Shit.”
“What?”
“I don’t have any condoms, though. Never had any plans to bring a girl back here since I was always so busy, and the casuals at the Bobcat ain’t my type.”
“It’s your lucky day.” I smile and kiss his chin. “I’m on the pill.”
The look he flashes me could devour a city.
I bite back how I’ve been on the pill since before coming out here when I was young for the last time.
The summer he wasn’t here.
My mother took me to the doctor because she didn’t want me coming home pregnant—another offensive fear of hers she never kept from Gran.
In one swift movement, he’s standing, lifting me up, holding me.
I loop my arms around his neck and nuzzle his cheek.
“Where are we going?” I whisper.
“Inside.” He whistles for Owl, and once the door shuts behind us, he releases my legs and kisses me like there’s a screaming meteor on the way to end life as we know it.
His embrace is so tight, I can barely breathe.
It doesn’t matter a moment later when his tongue finds mine, when my knees buckle, when he’s holding me up and taking me over, pressing every single button I’ve got.
I’m so flipping gone.
I have no idea how we wind up on the couch, but when the kissing ends, that’s where we are, stroking and caressing each other like our lives depend on it.
The skin beneath his shirt is so hot, so hard, I need more. Pushing his shirt up reveals muscle anointed with dark tattoos.
He does the same with my shirt, and as I pull my arms free, he grasps them, holding them over my head, devouring me with those shining green eyes.
“Dammit, darlin’, you’re so fucking beautiful.” For a second he bares his teeth, sucking a sharp breath through them. “So ready.”
Again, I almost spontaneously combust into an O on the spot.
He’s also too sweet, considering I’ve always felt extremely inadequate in one place.
“Fair warning. I’m a dancer and we’re often kinda flat.”
“Bullshit,” he snarls.
The thrill he sends through me, kissing my nipples one at a time, shows how much he means it.
“More than a mouthful might be a waste,” he says, bringing one nipple fully into his mouth to resume proving his point.
Holy Hades.
I’ve never experienced anything like the rough, playful, and utterly needy way he sucks me. Guys like Jean-Paul just did it out of habit, lacking real passion.
But Quinn teases my breasts like he’s been waiting to his whole life.
Every slap of his tongue, every soft kiss, every tender scratch of his teeth…
It jolts me so sharply I can hardly even think, except to relish just how incredible this is.
He’s still working my buds and raking his stubble against my breasts when his hand slides inside my shorts, straight to where I’m throbbing, burning, pleading for him most.
The way he touches, strokes, it’s thrilling and soothing at the same time.
Beyond perfection.
This man knows exactly where to touch, how much pressure, when to give and take, when to tease and when to render me breathless.
My pussy tenses, sending a white-hot needling heat down my legs, up my spine, through my entirety.
And when he finally parts my soaked folds—shoving two fingers in—when his thumb smothers my clit, when he barely moves until I ride his hand, I’m worse than screwed.
I’m owned.
Holding my breath at the pressure building inside me, I gasp his name.
“Quinn!”
“Go with it, Tory,” he whispers, quickening his fingers, stroking my walls with this mad, hot glint in his eye.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
My hips buckle. My thighs squeeze his hand. My legs start trembling like he’s going to split me in two.
I’ve never felt anything like the breach in my body right now.
The intensity of Quinn Faulkner’s otherworldly pleasure.
My walls clench around his fingers as he glides them in and out, all the while keeping this mad, steady pressure on one specific point. Devastating.
He has me pumping against his hand, losing my mind while a tsunami builds, demanding release.
I can’t stop it to save my life.
Nor do I want to.
It’s like the end of a dance routine, when the music is about to crescendo, and you’re given over to the sweet, sweet insanity.
“That’s it, Peach,” he says, urging me on, even as I grab his wrist and dig my nails in.
“Quinn, Quinn, I’m…I’m going to—”
“Fucking do it,” he demands. “Come hard for me, Peach. Let me feel you lose it.”
My eyes pinch shut and my body nearly convulses as his strokes continue, tenderizing my most sensitive nerves. Flames ignite, starting at my clit, winding in, working through me like searing hot ropes.