Complicate (Deliver 9)

Goosebumps prickled her thighs, and she shivered in the chilly air. He needed to move her to a warm bed, where he could take his time looking at her. He’d never seen her without clothes, and dammit, he needed to see her.

With his hands cupping her firm, bare backside, he turned and carried her up the next set of stairs. Her legs circled his waist. His palm pressed against her lower back, and he curled his middle finger deep into her asshole. A placeholder, to let her know he was coming for it.

Her gasp tore their kiss. He bit at her lips, her neck, nipping at her shoulders and marking her flesh with his teeth.

“I own you.” His mouth covered hers, claiming her with rough, unbridled hunger.

“I own you.” She molded his urgency to her own with a fierce passion.

“You don’t have an Irish accent.”

“I’m not Irish.” She frantically kissed his face, panting. “Mike and I have different mothers.”

“You’re going to tell me everything.”

“Yes.”

“I want it all, Lydia. All of you.”

“Take it.”

A possessive hum resonated in Cole’s chest. A wanting wrenched his gut. He ran a shaking thumb across Lydia’s lips, unable to stop himself from touching her. Then he kissed her, claiming her with the sweeping, stroking blade of his tongue.

Mouths locked, hands grappling, they bounced off the wall, bumped into the railing, stumbled over the last stair.

The third level greeted him with more darkness. But a sliver of moonlight poked through the curtains, giving shape to furniture and obstacles as he carried her through the space. A modest room with an open kitchen and a couch.

Without breaking the kiss, he headed toward the door that led to the only bedroom. Except he didn’t make it past the next wall. He crashed against it, deliberately falling against her, trapping her tight little body beneath his mindlessly grinding, humping, trying to assuage his blistering need.

He tore off his jacket, dropping it. She lowered her legs and fumbled with his zipper, opening it. His shirt and hat went next. Then his boots, his jeans, until he wore nothing but ink.

She bit her lip, breathing heavily and eyes slitted, trying to see him in the dark.

“Need light.” He gripped her waist and looked around.

“Bedroom.”

With spiking urgency, he hoisted her legs around his hips and attacked her mouth. She weighed nothing, her body twisting as she wrestled off her shirt.

Her sexy moans and whimpers drove him crazy, vocalizing unspoken wants. He quickened his gait, each step increasing the friction and persistence between them. Her hot mouth fell upon his neck, his shoulder, showering him in a frenzy of kisses as her hands clawed and pulled, scratching his back and tangling in his hair.

“You grew back your beard.” She kissed the scruff from one cheek to the other and cupped his face. “You’re so handsome, Cole Hartman.”

“Lydia.” Groaning, he bumped into the bedroom door and slapped a hand along the wall, hunting for a light switch.

“The table.”

He knocked over a slew of shit in his path and wiped out everything on the nightstand in his quest to find the bulb. “How do I turn the damn thing on?”

She laughed against his mouth. Then she threw back her head and laughed harder, the musical sound alive with relief and breathy with need.

He tossed her onto the bed and focused on the lamp. There. He caught the chain and yanked.

A dim glow illuminated the small, spartan room. Curtains blacked out the single window. No adjoining bathroom. No pictures on the walls. No knickknacks. Just a bed and the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen sprawled atop it.

Red hair. Natural red on her head and between her legs. Porcelain complexion, almost flawless, save for the freckles that speckled her brow and nose. Without the makeup and the wigs and evocative clothing, she looked outrageously innocent and young.

“How old are you?” He feathered his fingers up her calf, shaking with the force of his desire.

She shivered. “Twenty-seven.”

“I’m eleven years older than you.”

“Afraid you can’t keep up with me?” She stared up at him, panting, her sea-green eyes dazed and hooded, and her lips… Sweet hell, those full, fuckable lips pouted as she opened her legs, taunting him. “Let’s go, old man.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me look.” He sat back on his heels and soaked in the sensual lines of her body.

She arched into a sensuous stretch that mounted the pounding in his blood. She was perfect. So painfully, insanely gorgeous.

“You’re stunning. Jesus. You’re always beautiful, but this face…” He trailed a knuckle along her graceful jawline. “Your real face shines in breathtaking contrast to the one you paint on.”

“Cole.” She reached out a hand and scissored her legs back and forth, restless, needy.

He caught her fingers, entwining them with his. Until her eyes widened.

“Oh, my God.” With a gasp, she sat up, her attention locked on his new tattoo. “You removed her?”