Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

He releases my head, then slides that hand down my body as well. Slowly, he peels up the shirt, then pulls it over my head and tosses it aside. I'm facing the window, and I can see our reflection. His mouth in my hair. His hands cupping my breasts through my lace bra.

"You're as beautiful as I remember," he says, tugging the cups down to expose my breasts. He takes one of my hands and lifts it, then positions my palm over my breast. "Touch yourself, baby," he demands, as he slides his hand down to the zipper on my slacks.

I close my eyes, rolling my own nipple between my thumb and forefingers. It's hard and sensitive, and I gasp as the need builds inside me. As his fingers dip lower and lower, first teasing me at the band of my panties, and then lower still until his fingertip strokes my clit, making me moan as I spread my legs, wanting more. Faster. Harder. Everything.

"Tell me you like that," he demands.

"I do."

"Open your eyes."

I obey, then hear my own shudder of excitement at the image reflected in the window. Me, with my legs spread and my pants still on, his fingers inside my fly as he teases me to the edge. My shirt, crumpled on the floor. My own hand, kneading and twisting my nipple, in a futile attempt to make the pressure grow, to make it bigger. Hotter. More.

My face, lost in need. Painted with desire.

And Noah, still fully dressed, holding me up, supporting me even as he is claiming me.

"I like that picture," he says, his fingertip still slowly circling my clit. "There's only one thing I'd like more."

I lick my lips, waiting. Trying to stand still. Trying not to shatter under the riot of sensations he's set loose in my body.

And trusting that whatever he wants of me next will take me that much further.

This is the Noah I remember. The man who held my pleasure in his hand. Who knew my body as well as I did.

A man who could set me on fire with nothing more than a glance. Whose fingers worked magic on me, and whose cock filled me. Whose words set my imagination soaring.

Slowly, he lowers his mouth to my ear again. And slower still, he whispers, "I want you naked."

A shiver cuts through me. I picture myself standing between him and the window. Seeing myself as he touches me. Feeling the brush of his clothes as he pulls me close. Vulnerable. His.

Boldly, I reach back and unfasten my bra, then let it drop to the floor. I'm wearing canvas flats, and I kick them off.

I hear him draw in a breath behind me. A simple thing, but the sound is just slightly uneven, and I know that he's as turned on as I am.

And that, frankly, makes it even hotter.

I keep my back to him, but my eyes are locked on his in the reflection. I lower my hands to my slacks. They're already unzipped, and now I slide my hand along the waistband, then shimmy out of them, finally kicking them aside.

For a moment, I stand defiantly in my underwear, as if to turn the tables and make him plead with me. But the truth is, I want this, too. I want to stand naked in front of him. I want to see the heat in his eyes as he looks at me.

That's the power I have, and I want to wield it. I want to bring him to his knees.

I want an explosion.

Because there's too much passion lingering between us. It's wild and it's dangerous and it's combustible. And until we burn through it, it's going to tie us together.

And as much as I wish we could get back to the past, I know it's not possible.

We have to get past this thing.

I know it; I'm certain of it.

But right now I'm so damn grateful that the only way clear is through the man himself.

Noah.

For right now at least, I'll take the moment. I'll take Noah.