“You two came here together,” he pointed out in that low voice that contained a hint of thunder.
“Yeah, we had a date earlier.” And if there’s a bit of satisfaction coating my words, well, so be it. So what if I have zero sexual attraction for Roman? My business, not Knox’s.
“You’re dating now?” A shadow crosses his expression, a glint of…something flashing in his eyes. On another person, I might call it irritation. Maybe even jealousy. But this is Knox. He doesn’t do jealousy. Barely does emotion. And of the number of women he’s fucked in the years I’ve known him, none have been around long enough for him to become possessive over. “So this”—his eyes flick down my body—“is for him?”
This?Okay, the flared skirt of the black dress I’d chosen for the evening hit mid-thigh, exposing a ton more leg than I usually do, but the boat-neck collar of the sleeveless top is damn near demure when compared to the clothes a lot of the women are wearing tonight. Case in point, the woman he’d been entertaining out there in the living room. Her tight, strapless top had barely and valiantly clung to her breasts.
“No,” I snap. “It’s for me. What’re you mad about? That I didn’t get permission before going out with a man? Maybe I would’ve considered telling you my plans if you hadn’t been avoiding me like the fucking clap the last two weeks.”Like by going out of state with another woman. “But this is the thing. Last time I checked, I’m a grown-ass woman, and I don’t need your okay.”
His eyes narrow, and his mouth firms into a flat, grim line.
“What? No denial about avoiding me?” All the hurt, confusion, and anger seething inside me bubbles up my chest and into the brittle, cracked sound that some optimistic soul could label a laugh. One of two things are about to happen right now: I curse him the hell out, or allow the tears stinging my eyes to fall. Neither outcome is acceptable. “Screw this.”
I push past him, but a large hand wraps around my bicep in a gentle but implacable grip that stops me short. In the next second, the solid wall of his chest presses against my back, his thighs columns of marble behind mine. And his erection… My heart flails and whips my rib cage like a cornered creature desperately trying to free itself.
His erection brands my lower back, causing my sex to dampen and my mouth to water. It’s on a first-name basis with his cock, and damn if I’m not panting to get them up-close-and-personal again.
“No, I’m not going to deny it,” he rumbles in my ear, his breath hot and harsh over the sensitive skin under my lobe. “I left the fucking state twice to get away from you.” Before the hurt at his admission can burrow deeper inside me, he grinds his hips against me, his hard length digging into my ass. His palm flattens over my lower belly, holding me in place. Not that I’m trying to escape. No, I’m already rolling back into him, lifting into that stroke. Heat blasts through me, and I’m half surprised I’m not exhaling plumes of smoke. “It was either put as much distance between us as possible or slam you up against the nearest wall, table, chair, or goddamn floor and fuck you until your voice gave out from the screaming.”
His hand other hand releases my arm and slides over my shoulder and cups my breast through my dress. He squeezes the flesh, thumbing then pinching the nipple until it’s a sharp point through the material. I whimper, arrows of sharp pleasure darting from the tip to my clenching core.
“But I might as well as have saved the money and the gas. It was just geography. Didn’t stop me from lying there in that bed, my hand jacking my dick and imagining it was your mouth pulling at me, sucking on me. Didn’t prevent me from believing I could still taste you on my lips. Still feel your pussy squeeze my fingers and shiver on my tongue.” He shifts forward, moving across the room, and I have no choice but to go with him, his huge body moving me like a marionette, and his frame, his filthy, hot words, the strings guiding me. “Didn’t keep me from wanting you and despising myself for it.”
I try to smother the caustic sting the last bit of his serrated confession sends blistering through me. He loathes himself for desiring me. Probably resents me, too, although he didn’t admit that.
Well, welcome to this tiny club of two.
Before I can reply, my spine aligns with the wall, and he plants his fist on either side of my head, his body looming over me. I’m surrounded by his heady scent, his warrior frame.
“I’m tired, Eden.” The hushed words are so at odds with the gritty, carnal language that preceded them that I’m taken aback. Can only stare up at him, struck speechless by the weariness that throbs in his voice and etches his taut expression. Eyes closed, he leans forward and presses his forehead to mine. His breath, a cocktail of beer and a unique flavor that tastes of his kiss, puffs over my lips. And I have to fight the urge not to brush my fingertips over the sensual curves…over the light purple smudges under his eyes that telegraph his battle with sleep. “I’m so fucking tired of fighting.” His lashes lift, and I swallow a moan at the shadows darkening them. But not so dark I miss the sadness in their depths. Or the lust. The burning, glittering lust. “Give me the strength, baby,” he whispers. “Be my strength to walk away.”
That would be the right thing to do—the virtuous, moral thing. But the need blazing through me like an out-of-control wildfire razes morals and virtue to the ground, leaving the ashes scattered in the wind.
Instead, I choose to be his weakness.
Our downfall.
Raising onto my toes, I crush my mouth to his. Plunge my way inside, tangle my tongue with his, demanding he drown with me. Tunneling my fingers through his tumble of hair, I grasp the thick, cool strands, and tilt my head, dive deeper into the kiss, savoring the scratch of his beard over my skin. I’m the driver of this embrace, the taker, the giver, the conqueror. And the knowledge that it’s only because he’s allowing it licks the flames of desire higher, hotter.
God, he tastes sogood. I can’t get enough. Want more. Fisting his hair, I drag him down lower, raise higher in my shoes. This kiss… It’s messy, raw, untamed. Perfect.
His hands drop from the wall and grab my hips in a hold that’s so tight, I moan at the possessiveness in it. But as one of those hands falls to my thigh and slides up under my dress, not hesitating in its trip between my thighs, the moan swells into a desperate, ravenous cry. And crests into a scream as he slips under my soaked thong and thrusts two thick fingers inside me. Hard. Deep. Just like I need it. Like only he can give it to me.
I tear my mouth from his, my head falling back and smacking the wall. Blindly, I stare at the ceiling, everything in me drawn tight like a newly strung bow. God, will I ever get used to him inside my body? Just those two digits stretch me, have me dancing on the tips, caught between wanting to escape the invasion and sinking down, demanding more.
“Knox,” I breathe, as if he possesses the answer. And maybe he does, because he buries himself deeper, reaching higher. His mouth opens over my throat, and he licks my skin before sucking it. The last remnants of my rationale warn me that he’s most likely bruising me, marking me, and I should stop him. But the side of my brain that harkens back to the animal-skin-wrapped woman who judged a man by his power and strength, eggs him on with a hand to the back of his skull.
He glides his fingers free of me, and before I can beg for their return, he pushes back inside again, twisting his wrist, and damn if it feels like he’s touching every part of my sex. Again and again, he thrusts inside me, the heel of his palm grinding against my clit, propelling me toward an orgasm that I’m reaching for with desperate hands. That’s me. Selfish. So goddamn needy. For him. For the pleasure and sweet oblivion that has become a narcotic, both my salvation and my damnation.
“Not yet,” he rumbles a second before pulling out of me when I’mso closeit almost seems like he’s punishing me. I must make a sound—honest to God, I’m not sure of anything I do or say anymore—because he shakes his head. “You’ve come around my fingers and on my mouth. This time, you’re coming around my cock.”
He releases me and, reaching behind him, balls a fistful of T-shirt and yanks it over his head, baring that chiseled, muscular chest that eclipses everything else in the room. My fingers itch to caress, stroke, worship. He’s a work of art. A sculpture with blood and fire running underneath the perfection of marble.
He’s beautiful.
Dropping the shirt to the floor, he pulls a wallet from his back pocket and removes a small foil packet. Letting his wallet fall on top of his clothing, he brings the square to his mouth and rips it open, the other hand tugging open his jeans.
“I could hate you for having that condom,” I whisper.
