Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

He scrapes his teeth over the lobe of my ear, dragging my scent into his lungs as if it’s his right to get high on the smell of my skin. He tastes me as if he’s trying something new he plans on eating forever.

This kiss isn’t a roll between the sheets or forever. It’s both and everything in between. I’ve never been kissed like this, with so much patience yet enough intensity to burn up my skin.

My palms are sweating. A flush runs from my stomach to my toes. This is foreign territory. I have no idea what I’m doing, except that I’ve consented to this with my silence. Still, he gives me a backdoor, leaving me free to speak as he drags his lips to my jaw. My answer is to tilt back my head, giving him better access to my neck.

He doesn’t take the offering. He grabs it greedily, sucking a path down the arch to my shoulder and back up my throat. When I still don’t say no, the gloves finally come off.

Grabbing my face in one big hand, he splays his fingers over my cheek and drags me closer. Our mouths crash together when he meets me halfway. Flames erupt over my body. The explosiveness of the arousal is a new height for me. Maybe it’s the danger. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s knowing how short life is or the impulsive side of me I’ve never managed to tame. Maybe it’s believing sex beyond the disappointing average doesn’t exist and the joy of him proving that sad assumption wrong. Maybe it’s a combination of everything, but when he grabs my ass and yanks me to the edge of the table, he’s won.

He was right. There’s nowhere to run. Not in this. Not when my ex-boyfriends called me a nymphomaniac for my healthy appetite for sex, and Ian makes me feel normal.

He plunders my mouth, already fucking my lips with his tongue. It’s hot and demanding, the urgency I expect from a man who hasn’t been with a woman for a while. He grinds his erection against the juncture of my legs, making me wet.

Mindful of his injury, I grab his shoulders to steady myself. His skin is warm and his body hard. He catches my lip with his teeth, and I reciprocate the pain by dragging my nails over his skin. He palms my breasts and groans deep in his throat. I drag my hands over the hardness of his abs, tracing the grooves of his six-pack. The dusting of manly hair covering his chest is coarse under my fingertips. His skin contracts, and his stomach flutters under my palms. He digs his fingers into my waistband and jerks me harder against him.

I moan at the small display of roughness. We’re doing a dance of give and take. He unbuttons my jeans, and I reach for his belt. He pulls down my zipper as I undo his buckle. I grip his zipper, but he catches my head between his hands and tilts back my face. The movement forces me to fold my arms around his neck to stop me from falling. He watches me with disturbing intensity as I lock my ankles around his waist.

Bringing down his lips to mine slowly, he goes from frantic to patient again. He closes his eyes as he kisses me. The kiss is thorough and meticulous. It’s aimed at exploring and arousing. It’s offering a tender caress. It tells me he’s not going to fuck my body. He’s going to worship it.

“Yes,” I say, moaning into the kiss.

“Yes, fuck.”

His words are heated, the approval in them messing with my head because they have no right to make me feel good. He kisses me with slow precision, focusing on every second as if he’s burning it to his memory.

Damn it, he knows how to kiss. He explores with his lips, teeth, and tongue. He takes with abandon, demanding everything, and cherishes me in turn. It’s a simple exchange, an age-old, instinctive one, and it’s easy to follow a man who knows how to lead.

I explore him right back, tracing the seam of his lips with my tongue before tasting him deeper. A groan vibrates in his chest, giving away the urgency of his need, but he doesn’t hurry me along. He lets me get my fill.

When my jaw is tired and I slow my kissing, he locks his hands around my waist to hold me up as he moves his lips to my breasts. My sex is aching and swollen by the time he licks my nipple through the lace of my camisole.

“This color suits you,” he says, sucking the lace-covered tip into his mouth. “I like it on your mouth too.” He hums his appreciation. “Purple like a plum.”

I arch my back when he gives the other breast the same treatment. I’m lost in passion, drowning in a dark sea of need, and for the first time the lack of air doesn’t scare me. I can die happily like this.