Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

“Ian.” His name sounds like a gasp. I’m not strong enough for his game.

Gripping the bottom of the towel, he tugs gently. “Let me taste you.”

I slacken my fingers where I grip the towel between my breasts. He doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the permission, yanking a little harder and letting the towel fall at my feet. Only then does he fix his gaze on the junction of my legs.

He stares for a few beats before running the pad of his finger down my slit. The touch is like a ghost whisper, barely there. Straightening, he drags his palms over the outsides of my legs, hips, and sides, coming to a stop under my breasts. Cupping my ribcage, he traces the undercurve of my breasts with his thumbs. He fixes his gaze on my nipples, and even if I’m not shy, my cheeks heat under his unabashed examination.

“So goddamn perfect in every way,” he says, drawing lazy circles with his thumbs around my nipples.

My breasts are trigger zones. Roughness doesn’t do much for me, but the tender way in which he teases me makes me wet. Need pulses between my legs. I feel high and heavy simultaneously, floating and swollen.

“I’m going to taste you,” he says, chasing answers in my eyes.

Biting my lip, I nod.

“You sure about that?” he asks.

He knew from the start he was going to touch me. Letting him watch was an icebreaker. He didn’t try to seduce me. He didn’t need to. He was too certain of the effect he’d have on me. Even now, when my body has already surrendered, he still gives me the choice, so I give him the only answer I can.

“Yes.”

One last time.

Chapter 12

Ian

This woman is my downfall.

I already risked my life and freedom for her. Now I risk being ruined for all other women by framing her breasts between my hands and bringing my tongue to a pale-pink, hard, little nipple. The moment I close my lips around that tip, I’m lost.

It’s a done deal.

I belong to her, and she doesn’t even know it. The flesh I’m eating like candy hardens in my mouth. Her cooler skin contracts under the warmth of my tongue. She tastes every bit as good as I knew she would. She’s perfect for me. To prove the theory, I cover her other breast with my palm. The fit is snug. She was made for me. She cups her hand over mine, keeping my touch where she wants it, and I almost come undone. It takes more willpower than I possess not to push her down onto the rug and sink balls-deep into her. I only gain back a semblance of my control when she finally releases my fingers to grip my bicep for balance.

The small act of mercy allows me to take it slowly. If she tells me—or God forbid, shows me—how to touch her, I’m not going to last. It’ll take longer if I have to figure it out for myself, and the long way around is definitely the way I want to go.

As I tease the pink tip of her breast with flicks and licks of my tongue, I finally coax the sounds from her that tell me how to please her. She moans. Fuck, I love that sound. I love the way she grabs my shoulders and digs her nails into my skin. Her breasts are sensitive. Good. I love all the parts of a woman, but the sensitive zones drive me crazy. The reactions I elicit with my hands and mouth are my addictions.

I lick and suck until I’m more or less sated before moving to the other breast. I can never get enough, but a night only has twelve hours, and I have a lot of gorgeous skin to cover. I work my way down, kissing every rib to the hollow of her navel. She smells of me, of a brand of shower gel I always buy, and fuck me if that doesn’t sit right with me. I want to brand her with my stamp. I want to rub my cum all over her until every other man knows she’s mine. I knew it the minute I laid eyes on her, and I’ll know it for the rest of my life. I can’t see her again after tonight, but that doesn’t change a goddamn thing. Even if she fucks another man, she’ll still be mine. The thought makes me see red though. Her yelp penetrates my immature jealous haze. I’ve bitten down a little too hard on the soft flesh of her mound. I lick away the sting and banish the sacrilegious images. Our time is now, in the present.

Hooking her leg over my shoulder, I make the most of that time. I kiss the back of her knee and the insides of her leg. I take my time tasting her skin and testing its softness with my hands. Straightening, I lock my fingers around her wrist and bring it to my mouth. I taste her pulse. It flutters under my tongue. I learn the beat of her heart and the rhythm of her breaths as I kiss my way up her arm. When I reach her shoulder, I linger extra-long. The curve is smooth, and like her breast, it fits into the palm of my hand. I want her to live in my palm. If I could, I’d pocket her like a miniature doll.