“When did you get this?” he asks, flicking it.
“Last month,” I whisper. “Jude did it for me.”
“Is it still tender?” he murmurs, flipping the metal again.
Pain in the palest shade of red tinges the pleasure zinging through me and arrowing straight to the wet flesh between my thighs. My teeth sink into my bottom lip, and I can’t prevent the slight squirm of my hips.
“A little,” I breathe. Then, because I can’t hold it in… “Do it again.” It’s clearly a plea, and I know how it sounds. Greedy. Desperate. Screw it. I don’t care. “Please.”
That piercing, emerald gaze—with its dark depths and hard edges—bores into mine. Instinct warns me to avoid it, but I don’t. Can’t. Even if it means he glimpses the arousal that’s lighting me up like the Olympic torch.
As if in slow motion, he grasps the tiny jewel in the middle of the ring.
And tugs.
My breath explodes from my lungs, echoing in the room like a cannon shot. It shouldn’t feel this good. But God, it does. Maybe because it’s him. No,definitelybecause it’s him.
“Again,” I rasp, my fingernails digging into the leather cushion.
Something spasms across his face, some emotion I can’t decipher. But it’s dark, a little forbidding, like that night months earlier. A little scary, a little be-careful-what-you’re-asking-for. A lot I’ll-fuck-you-into-this-chair. Part of me almost rescinds the request, not ready for what that expression promises. But the starving, hasn’t-been-touched-in-two-years part drowns out that other half. Yeah, I might not be ready. Doesn’t mean I don’t want it more than my next lust-infused breath. Especially from him. Especially when I’d convinced myself I’d never have this.
Without releasing me from the visual snare of his eyes, he rolls closer on the stool, lowers his head, and—
Ohhh fuck.
His tongue sweeps over me, curling around the jewelry, gently sucking, pulling. The springy but soft hair of his scruff brushes my skin, adding another sensation to enjoy and covet more of. Pleasure radiates from where his mouth covers me, and my clit pulses like a beacon. My nipples throb, drawing into tight points, and I cover them with my hands, palms pressing into them. But it doesn’t ease the ache, just worsens it—or heightens it. Both.
Unable to remain still, I whimper, arching into his wicked caress, my hips rolling, begging for another, harder, deeper touch. Releasing the belly ring, he traces the rim of my navel, dipping inside. Blowing gently on the damp skin.
He straightens, and I almost cry with the loss of that beautiful mouth on me. Releasing one breast, I trail my hand down my torso and stroke the damp flesh he left behind. As if I can seal the impression of his tongue into my skin.
“Lift your shirt higher,” he growls. Shock slaps me, and I freeze, my hands—one on my stomach, the other over my breast—going still. Standing from the stool, he leans over me, his big palms resting on the chair arms. A fine tension damn near vibrates from him, his muscles straining against his shirt. The tendons in his neck stand out in sharp relief. He appears one second—or one disobedient act—away from snapping and losing control. “Show me where it hurts.”
Is this the same voice he used on the girl at the bar to convince her to enter that storeroom and get down on her knees for him? Because, like her, I’m ready to please him. And all because he asked in that rough, sex-on-churned-up-earth voice. I’m raising my shirt, baring my chest when there’s a shop full of people just on the other side of the door. I don’t even think it’s locked. But at this moment, I wouldn’t care if Jude, his client, and the client’s mama stride into the room. I just want to give Knox what he wants.
What I need.
And I need to see the desire deepening his eyes to a green so dark, they appear black. I need him to cool the burn, satisfy the hunger. I need to be wanted. Byhim.
“Here,” I whisper. Then, another woman—a less inhibited, more sexually confident, don’t-give-a-good-fuck woman—possesses my body because I tug down the lace bra, freeing my breasts. Cool air brushes over my flesh, and the nipples bead tighter. But I don’t fool myself. It’s his gaze on me that has me in this state, not the kiss of air. “It hurts here.”
I cup myself, offering…pleading.
And he takes.
A loud, slightly ominous rumble is my only warning before he swoops down and sucks my nipple into his mouth, drawing hard.
A scream shoots up my chest, crawls up my throat, but I slap a hand over my lips before it escapes. I burrow the other hand into his hair, dislodging the bun he binds the thick strands into when he’s tattooing. I can’t… I can’t think. Can’t… My muffled cry is muted in the room, but in my head, it’s splintering glass. Perking up the ears of dogs. His tongue torments me, each pull and stroke tugging on a phantom cord connected to my sex. There’s no hesitation in him. No gentleness.
No mercy.
And I don’t want his mercy or his tenderness. For the first time in years, someone is treating me like I’m not this fragile figurine that needs to be delicately handled so I won’t shatter. Treating me like a woman.
Lowering my hand, I am riveted by the sight of his mouth surrounding me. Watching him only sharpens the pleasure shrieking through me like the fiercest Chicago wind. With a soft pop, he releases me, and I trace his reddened, swollen lips. Soft, but firm. Generous but a little bit cruel. I’ve been obsessed with this mouth. What it could do to me. And now part of that fantasy is coming true.
I shiver.
“Kiss me,” I murmur, pressing my fingertip to the middle of his bottom lip, groaning as the edge of his teeth grazes my skin. It’s a demand. A plea. A wish. I want to finally taste him. Find out if he’s a dark, heady flavor that will go straight to my head and leave me drunk for hours. Discover for myself what that other woman knows. Determine if he’s as addictive as I think he will be.
