Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

With a nod, he wrestles off a boot. Then the other, followed by his socks.

His hands fall to his fly as he straightens and meets my eyes. “Be sure, Maybe.”

I shake my head. “I’m not saying yes.”

He searches my expression, inspecting and evaluating. When his eyes land on mine, the corner of his mouth crooks up.

He knows what I want. The illusion. The belief that he’s taking and forcing, that I have no choice or power.

In reality, the word stop is my power. It’s also the only power that matters, and we both know it.

In a fluid slide of motion, he strips the last of his clothes and stands at his full height, feet braced apart, chin lowered, and eyes tilted upward and fastened on mine.

Sculpted and chiseled from his hair to his feet, he unabashedly grips the base of his impressive erection and strokes. “Lie on your back.”

“No.” I won’t make this easy. “If you want boring—”

He launches, and I swerve. His hand catches a fistful of curls, and my heart rate skyrockets. I can’t untangle his grip without losing strands, so I do the only thing I can. I spin toward him and grab his hair.

It’s thick and wet and so damn silky, but I manage to clutch a good hunk and pull with all my might.

“Fuck!” He releases a pained laugh, and the hand in my hair lets go.

With a squeal, I take off. Blood pumping, boots sloshing, I race through the night with a veracious wolf on my trail.

He sprints after me, groaning loudly. “You should see the way your ass moves.”

My buttocks flexes instinctively, and I cringe. And stumble.

He grabs my arm and swings me around. Midnight lashes mantle the golden flames in his eyes as they blaze down upon me. The predatory beauty and ruthlessness in that gaze seizes my breath and gallops my pulse.

I press a hand against his chest, his skin rippling beneath my palm. I suck in air, panting and filling my lungs with his scent. He smells like rain and electricity, earth and grass, and something else, a quintessential toughness that’s unique only to him—sweat and lust and vibrating life. It’s all there, emanating from his skin.

He’s the strongest, most potent creature I’ve ever encountered, a powerhouse of force and drive who lures as much as he terrifies.

And he wants me.

I shove at his massive chest. He doesn’t budge. I yank on my arm in his grasp, both of us still slippery from the rain. I slide free, staggering with surprise.

Then I’m running again, veering left and right while staying in the vicinity of our clothes.

He swipes at me and growls, lunges and grunts, playing with me, letting me slip away long enough to resume the chase.

Surrounded by a dark field of nothingness, with his muscular body backlit by the moon and his cock standing proud, he’s wild and ferocious. A gorgeous, majestic beast on the hunt.

His hair hangs over his brow, sticking to wet lashes. Whiskers darken his jaw. Tension stiffens the razored edges of his face as he stalks me like an animal would its mate.

Possessive and hungry, he grabs at me, missing and losing patience. “When I catch you—”

“I know.”

Saliva rushes over my tongue, and my pussy throbs for the hard, thick rock of flesh between his legs.

Any panic left in my body is vanquished by the burn of his eyes. I’ve worked him into a frantic, heaving, ravenous monster who’s no longer interested in playing.

Muscles flicker in his rigid jaw. Veins bulge along his flexing forearms. His fists squeeze and release at his sides. Yet somehow, he still holds tight to his control.

I’ve never seen anything as beautiful or frightening as this man on the brink of losing it. He robs the air from my chest and replaces it with red-hot heat that spreads south, pulsing and raging between my legs.

A heartbeat later, his restraint breaks. He moves so fast I feel him before I see his arms cage my waist. My feet leave the ground. My legs hook around his hips, and my hands fall through the soft strands of his dark hair.

He hoists me higher, and his lips sweep across my chest, feasting with open-mouth kisses, brutal nips, and scorching licks.

I arch against him, moaning. “You’re a breast man.”

“I’m a Maybe man.” His hand stabs into my hair, cupping the back of my head and wrenching it down to plunder my mouth in a commanding kiss.

Smashed together, we can’t seem to squeeze close enough, hips grinding, fingers scratching, lips sealed and sucking.

I loop my arms around the sturdy column of his neck, tilting my head left and right to deepen the angle, rubbing my tongue against the whip of his, biting and groaning and coming undone.

Desire erupts from everywhere as our connection sizzles and sparks, growing hotter, wetter. Every cell in my body buzzes and burns for his.