He slides his tongue between my lips, flutters it, and I light up like a bonfire as heat pours through me. Envelops me. Stokes the flames inside me until I fear losing myself—and him—to the conflagration.

“Miles.” I rip my mouth from his, suck huge gasps of air into my starving lungs as I try to gain some kind of control over my very out-of-control body. But I’m too far gone, every cell and nerve ending I have crying out for everything—for anything—he can give me. And more. Always, always more.

My hands tighten in his hair and he groans again. I revel in the sound even as I twist tighter, tug harder, pull him closer, closer, closer.

“I need you,” I tell him. “I need you inside me. Please.”

I’m on the worktable in a heartbeat, his body straining against mine, over mine, holding me in place as he slides his hands around to cup my ass. He’s everywhere—everywhere—his body hot and hard and huge as he pushes between my legs. As he lifts and lowers me so that his cock presses deep against my sex.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he snarls. I do as he asks and suddenly he’s so close that I can feel the outline of his cock through his jeans and the thin fabric of my yoga pants.

“Fuck, Tori!” He squeezes my ass, continuing to lift and lower me in time to the blood roaring in my ears. Then his other hand is somehow in my hair, forcing my head back so that I’m completely open to him, the long, slender column of my neck on display before him.

It’s what he’s waiting for, I decide, as his mouth skims over my cheek and down my jaw to the tender skin of my throat. He pauses there, licking and kissing and sucking at my throat until I can all but feel the bruises bloom. Then he moves lower, sucking another bruise into my collarbone and another into the tender flesh of my breast.

I’m gasping now, my legs tight around his hips even as my fingers clutch at his hair, his shoulders, his back. He’s just as frantic as he tears at my tank top, flinging it across the room before doing the same to my bra.

Then his mouth is on my nipple, licking, sucking, biting at me until my entire body is trembling and my eyes are all but rolling back in my head at the pleasure. He rolls my nipple between his lips, between his teeth, before tensing his tongue and flicking it over the tip so fast and hard that my entire body seizes up in a paroxysm of pleasure.

He does it again and again, until I’m shivering, shaking, until I’m crying out his name as tears of need roll down my face. I’m all but sobbing now, my whole body shuddering beneath him, and he lifts his head for a second to look at my face. To check in and make sure I’m still with him.

I’m not sure what he sees there, but it must be what he was looking for because he ducks his head and starts the same torture on my second breast even as he pinches my first, overworked nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

It’s so much—too much, even, and I push him away as the tension, the need, continues to build inside me. “Stop,” I gasp, even as my fingers tangle in his T-shirt, keeping him from moving back too far.

“What do you need, baby?” he murmurs, one hand coming up to stroke my cheek as the other continues to play with my nipple.

“God, Miles, stop!” I shove him more forcefully this time and his head snaps back, his eyes meeting mine. There’s a question in them now, and genuine concern as he searches my face. When he takes a few deep, shuddering breaths, it occurs to me that he’s trying to get himself under control. That he thinks I want him to stop for good.

I’m balanced precariously on the edge of his worktable, but I trust him to hold me as I shift against him and start pulling at his T-shirt. It takes a couple of seconds to get it untucked, but once I do I strip it over his head in one fluid movement.

His chest is smooth, sculpted, and so hard it makes my mouth water with the need to taste him again. To run my tongue over the long, lean muscles of his sides and shoulders. To kiss my way across the heavy thickness of his pecs before taking his nipples in my mouth.

He groans at the first touch of my lips on his skin, his hand moving to cup the back of my neck again and hold me in place. It’s such a proprietary hold that it should freak me out, should have me breaking away, but instead I just give myself up to it. To him.

But just because I let him guide me doesn’t mean I don’t have some tricks of my own, and as he presses my mouth to his skin, I sink my teeth into his pec. He stiffens, curses, but his cock twitches against my sex and he doesn’t pull away. It’s all the encouragement I need, so I swirl my tongue over the small hurt before biting him again. And again.

His reaction is explosive, immediate, and desperate—so desperate. Almost as desperate as I am to feel his mouth on me. To feel him inside me. He thrusts his hand into my hair, then yanks none too gently until my face is on the same level as his.

My first glimpse of his eyes has me gasping, growing wetter. His gaze has turned to midnight blue—dark and dangerous and oh-so-tempting. I can see his need for me flickering in the depths of his eyes, as well as the razor-thin edge of control that he’s walking. One look tells me how close he is to the edge, warns me that he’s hanging on by his fingertips.

There’s a part of me that wants to back off, that wants to see what happens if I let him stay on that edge of his control for a little longer. But seeing him like this, pushed so close to the edge because of me—because he wants me, needs me, the same way I need him—is everything I want and more than I thought to ask for.

Fucking men is easy, but getting inside them—letting them inside me—is hard. It’s also something I don’t do. At least not until now.

But there’s something in knowing I’m not alone, in knowing—really knowing—that he’s right here with me, that makes okay even the desperate maelstrom of need roiling inside me.

I lick my lips, watching as his eyes follow my every movement like I’m his salvation. I do it again and revel in the groan he doesn’t even try to hold back. Then I do it once more, this time allowing my tongue to linger on my lower lip as I use my eyes to make all kinds of promises that I have every intention of keeping.

He reaches for me then, slides his hands down my neck before resting his palm against my collarbone and his fingers against the pulse points at the base of my throat. It’s an intimate hold, and a dominant one, and I’ve never let anyone touch me like that before in my life. Then again, I’ve never let anyone hold me by the nape of the neck, either, an

d I gave that to him just as easily. More, I took it for myself, because no matter how nerve-racking it is to have him hold me this way, I don’t want him to back off. And I sure as hell don’t want him to stop.

I’m not sure what that says about me, about us, and right now I don’t actually care. Not when the heat we’re generating has lightning crackling between us, ripping through my body. Through my veins and muscles. Through my mind and heart and soul. Through every part of me until Miles is all I can think of, all I desire.

His other hand is still on my breast, and the tug of his fingers on my nipple is only making me crazier. I lean forward, press my lips to his with a desperation I never thought myself capable of feeling. I’ve never felt like this before, not even when we were in bed this morning, never imagined that I could feel so vulnerable and so powerful and so wanted all at the same time.

All of a sudden our clothes are too much of a barrier between us. I want his jeans gone, want my yoga pants on his workshop floor as he slides his cock deep inside me. My whole body clenches at the thought, my sex aching emptily even as my fingers fumble with the button on his jeans.

Tags: Tracy Wolff Ethan Frost Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net