Page 53 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge
“Don’t be a wuss,” I murmur, fighting back a wicked grin. “I assure you he’s got better manners than me.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Why do I get the feeling you’re enjoying this?”
I smirk, “Because I’m a dickhead, that’s why.”
Something shifts in her eyes then—that dangerous glint I’m starting to recognize. Her fingers release my shirt, but her touch lingers, as she begins to stroke my abs through the thin material.
“I dunno, Cade.” Her voice has dropped to that velvet tone that makes my cock twitch. “I suppose I could try and give him a couple of strokes. But he’s just so . . . big.” Her fingertips trail along the hand I’ve got around her neck up to my bicep. “And so unbelievably muscly.”
The smirk dies on my face as pleasure hits like a physical blow. My hand tightens in her hair before I can stop it, and her sharp intake of breath shoots straight to my groin. My focus narrows to the sheen of perspiration on her pouty lip, that perfect Cupid’s bow gleaming like an invitation.
Her pink tongue darts out, gathering the moisture in a slow sweep that makes my jaw clench. The need to chase that tongue, to catch it between my teeth and taste her smart mouth, pounds through me like a fever. A whimper escapes her lips, and I realize I’m gripping her hair too tight. I force my fingers to loosen, even as every instinct screams to pull her closer.
“My God, Cade.” Her voice comes out all silk and sin. “Look how flushed you are.” Those clever fingers trace patterns on my chest. “Did you think I was talking about you?”
That fucking mouth. Always pushing, always testing. My cock throbs with the need to find better uses for it.
“Nah,” she continues, all false innocence now. “I was talking about Saint over there. He’s, um . . . definitely not a sausage dog.” Her eyes dance with wicked amusement. “What is he?”
“Cane Corso,” I manage, the words scraping past the desire thick in my throat. Even my voice betrays how badly I want to show her exactly who I thought she was talking about.
Her eyes rake over me, slow and scorching. “Figures. He looks majestic. Hard. Dominant.” She leans closer, her lips lightly skimming the spot beneath my ear. “A bit of a biter too, I bet?”
“Fuck yeah,” I growl. My hand moves to the front of her neck and holds her in a chokehold.
But she doesn’t back off. Instead, her thighs grip my waist with shocking strength, and she drags herself flush against me, the heat of her core pressing right into my abs through that flimsy lace. Her small hand starts a torturously slow crawl up my torso, fingertips mapping each ridge of muscle like she’s memorizing the terrain, until she’s spanning my neck.
Luna is mirroring my grip, showing me exactly how it feels to be held like that.
And fuck me, do I feel. The touch screams ownership, primitive and raw.
My nostrils flare with an emotion I’d usually strangle before it could breathe—but I can’t. I need her to feel possessed, even as she’s proving she can brand me right back.
Then her fingertips shift, pressing into the angle of my jaw with deliberate precision, and I realize what she’s doing—taking my fucking pulse like I’m a test subject.
The clinical intimacy of it hits me harder than if she’d wrapped that dainty hand around my cock and squeezed. My blood thunders under her touch, betraying exactly what she does to me.
I growl, “You’re playing a dangerous game, princess.”
“Oh, I know,” she murmurs. “But tell me one thing . . . does your heart always race this much when someone’s playing with you, or is that reaction saved for just me?”
Pleasure surges through me at her boldness, at the way she wields that sultry voice like a weapon.
Her own breaths come in shallow puffs against my throat, her thighs squeezing the shit out of me, and I can practically smell her arousal off her soaked panties.
Yet she keeps pushing, teasing like she doesn’t care if she gets burned alive—as long as she drags me into the flames with her.
Sophie’s right. She’s under my skin. Not even twenty-four hours, and she’s burrowed so deep I feel her in my bones. It’s the way she plays with me, the way she picks at the edges of my control until I want to snap and show her exactly how I play, too.
Somehow, I find the willpower to pull back from the edge. Unlocking her ankles from around my waist, I step back, putting much-needed distance between us. “If you’re going to be such a wise-ass, then you can meet Saint on your own.”
I leave the kitchen and head toward the den, my body thrumming with everything I want to do to her.
“Hey, hey! Where are you going?” she calls, hopping off the counter and chasing after me.
Glancing back, I let her catch the smirk tugging at my lips. “Why, to calm my racing heart, princess. Try not to get eaten while I’m gone.”
I pitch my voice louder. “My friend wants to say hi, Saint!”
