“Look at me.”
I wait, outwardly patient, but inside… Shit, inside, my heart attempts to kick a hole through my rib cage. I’ve just admitted to her my years-long obsession, and she hasn’t run away screaming in disgust. Yet. I brace myself for what I’ll glimpse in her eyes. Shock? Horror? Wariness? Pity? God! I’d rather see the disgust in her gaze than pity. I can deal with her not returning even an iota of the same feelings for me, but not that.
Her lashes lift, and… relief and unfiltered joy pours through me, and my hold on her face tightens, but I can’t loosen it. I can’t let go.
There’s lust there, yeah. But there’s… more. I’m afraid to identify the more. Because if I’m wrong…
I bend my head and take her mouth in a raw, wild, probably bruising kiss.
Slow down. Easy, a voice whispers in my head. But I stifle that voice because I can’t afford slow or easy. Not when there’s a chance thatsomethingI spied in her eyes might disappear in the next instant.
Or when there’s a chance that my fevered, desperate mind might have imagined it.
Thrusting my tongue between her parted lips, I moan, both in relief and ravenous hunger, when she opens wider for me, surrendering to me. She gives me another of those little, hot sounds of need, and I lap it up, swallow it down in greedy bites. And go back for more. Always more with her, because I’m never satisfied.
I’m beginning to fear I’ll never be satisfied.
Releasing her face, I shove her jacket off her shoulders, then strip her sweater over her head, throwing it to the floor. Her bra joins the clothing seconds later. On a growl that tears out of me, I cup her breasts, squeezing them, shaping them. Fuck, she feels good. Like a goddamn miracle.
Her fingers tighten on my wrists like cuffs, and her head tips back on her shoulders. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, and her body shifts in this restless movement akin to a dance. This is India adrift in passion, letting it consume her. And it’s humbling that she has never held back her pleasure from me. Has been uninhibited with me. She’s trusted me with her body.
Now I want more.
I want her heart.
I press my forehead to her chest, right over said organ.
My stomach knots, recognizing and understanding the consequences the pursuit of her will bring. The bomb it will detonate in the relationships in my life—well, just one in particular. And that scares me.
But not having this—not being able to touch her, inhale her jasmine-infused skin, kiss her smooth, brown skin—scares me even more.
That desperation claws at me again, harder now, leaving deep furrows, drawing emotional blood. The urge to mark her, to claim her, wells within me, and I draw her nipple into my mouth, sucking hard, flicking the beaded tip with my tongue. Her hands tunnel through my hair, nails scratching my scalp, scattering pricks of pleasure/pain in their wake. With a moan, I curl my tongue around her, pull harder, and twist and roll the other tip between my fingers.
Fire blazes through my body, lust a relentless task master, a demanding boss. And I obey. Willingly. Switching breasts, I treat the neglected flesh to my mouth, tongue, and teeth, eliciting shudder after shudder from her. My cock aches, pounds, and I grind it against the soft give of her belly, seeking some kind of ease. But it’s fruitless. The kind of alleviation I need can only be found in that sweet, hot, tight pussy.
And I have to get in there.
With a hunger that borders on obsession, I have to get deep inside her.
Once more, I claim her mouth while my hands drop to her joggers. In moments, I’ve pushed them and her panties down her legs, removing the clothing and her sneakers out of the way. My breath saws out of my chest as I stand before this goddess in all her glory.
Belatedly—shit, what does that say about me as an uncle—I remember my niece sleeping upstairs—I cup her hips and move her farther into the living room.
As if she recalls Rose, too, she shakes her head, her hands going to my chest. “Rose?” she whispers.
“Asleep,” I say. “And nothing short of an atomic bomb is waking her up. But come here.” I maneuver her around the end of the couch, away from the room’s entrance. Turning her so she’s facing the sofa’s arm, I curve an arm around her waist and slide the other up her torso, between her breasts, my fingers splayed across her collar bone. “Kiss me.”
She turns her head, resting it on my shoulder, and giving me her mouth. I slip my hand over her hip and between her thighs, finding her soaking wet.
“Goddamn, baby girl,” I growl against her lips, nipping the full bottom curve. “All of this is for me?” Palming her pussy, I thrust two fingers inside her, and those slick, firm walls quiver around me. My cock throbs in complaint. “Tell me, India. This is mine?”
I’m wading into dangerous territory, skimming a crumbling, creaky ledge that, if I were smart, I’d back away from before I tumbled over it.
But I don’t heed that warning. Instead, I thrust harder, press the heel of my palm against her clit and circle it. She pants into my mouth, and I circle harder, press harder, thrust harder.
“Is this mine?” I ask her again.
“Yes,” she whines, gasping when I slam my fingers back into her. “Take it, Asa. Take me. Please.”
