Unwrapping the Best Man

She laughs. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

I bow to her neck, taste her skin, her perfume. ‘You have goose bumps.’

‘And they’re for you, Jackson, not the chill.’

I smile into her throat, into her collarbone. I roll my thumbs over each tautened peak and listen to her breath hitch. ‘You like that?’

Her laugh is trapped in her throat now. ‘Not obvious enough?’

I capture one nub in my thumb and forefinger and pinch: Dare to mock.

She bucks against me. It’s another carnal punishment and I have so many more under my belt. So many more that I need to cage. Because this is Caitlin, and I’ll never take her down my twisted path.

‘More Jackson, more.’

I raise my head to look down at her. Even in the moonlight I can see her cheeks are streaked pink, her skin flushed with desire, eyes glassy and wanton. I repeat the move, only harder, and she bites her lip.

‘Don’t push me,’ I say.

A little crease forms between her brows. ‘Why not?’

Her question cuts right through me, to my inner battle, my torment, my darkness.

‘You might not like what you find.’

She has the audacity to laugh and I frown. My erection is pressing painfully between us. The heat is too much to bear. And she...she laughs?

‘This isn’t funny.’

She bites her bottom lip, the move so damn seductive I have to run my thumb over the trapped flesh, force her to release it so I can breathe.

‘Tell me it’s not funny.’

Her lustful eyes dance and the crease between her brows deepens.

‘Say it, Caitlin.’ I hold her chin steady, my stare hard.

Her lashes flutter as she breathes in deeply, her eyes searching mine for answers she doesn’t even know the questions to, and then with her outward breath comes her obedience. ‘It’s not funny.’

My cock pulses, loving her compliance.

‘Say it again.’

The crease eases between her brows as her eyes relax and blaze in one. She’s a swift learner. ‘It’s. Not. Funny.’

I lift her chin higher. ‘Better. Again.’

She tilts her head back under her own steam now and says it again, stronger, and my cock bucks beneath the kilt as the power I’m addicted to rushes my veins.

‘Again.’

‘It’s.’ She drags her hand down my front.

‘Not.’ She slips between the sporran and my kilt—you should stop her.

‘Funny.’ She takes a hold of me through the fabric and fuck, I squeeze my eyes shut against the intense rush of pleasure, grab her wrist and pull her away.

‘No.’ I take up her other wrist, forcing them both above her head. ‘You don’t touch me until I say.’