Stolen Lust Page 12

  The soap smells like his skin after he’d washed on the night I’d taken the bullet from his shoulder. The smell reminds me of summers in the Drakensberg when the grass is high and green and dew covers the blades in the early morning.

  When I turn to rinse my back, he’s still in the same position. Closing the tap, I squeeze the water from my hair. He pushes off the doorframe and grabs a towel from the rail. Before I can get the door, he’s there, opening it like a gentleman would get a door for a lady and handing me the towel.

  “Thanks,” I say a little awkwardly as I accept the offering.

  I wrap it around my body and step from the shower, but he remains in place, blocking my way. His gaze isn’t fixed on where I’m folding one end of the towel over the other between my breasts, but on my face. He searches my eyes with a heated look, letting me see the violent storm of lust in his own. Desire makes a brown universe dotted with golden stardust of those dark pools.

  “Turn around,” he says in a husky voice.

  His arousal is contagious. My body tightens in response, my nipples hardening and goosebumps running over my damp skin. The open way in which he shows his lust turns the heat in my belly up a notch. I like his boldness. I love his honesty. I can easily get addicted to his willpower and cleverness. It’s this revelation that makes me obey. I give him my back lest he sees the truth in my eyes.

  He reaches for another towel. Gently, he squeezes the excess water from my hair. He’s careful not to pull. I don’t tell him my scalp isn’t sensitive. I enjoy the ministration and care too much. When he’s satisfied that my hair isn’t dripping any longer, he tackles my arms. Instead of rubbing, he pats them dry as if my skin is rice paper that can tear. Going down on his haunches, he dries my feet and moves up my calves. I’ve never had a man like Ian, let alone at my feet, so when he tells me to turn in his deep, raspy voice, I do. He’s kneeling in front of me, staring at my face like it’s the last thing he’ll see, drinking in my features as if he may go blind in a second.

  “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.

  By the time I’m kissing her jaw, she’s panting through parted lips. Those lips are my destination, but I make a detour via her baby-blue eyes, pressing a kiss on each lid, willing the imprint of us to burn into her brain. It sure as hell is a permanent mark on mine.

  Continuing south, I kiss the tip of her nose. Only then do I frame her face between my hands and press our lips together. I swear the universe implodes. Everything retracts and condenses into this moment, into one kiss. Nothing else exists, not the violence or the money, not even Leon or Ruben, as I part her lips with my tongue. The blackness of my life isn’t a color. It’s just a canvas for the color she makes as she gives me her tongue and kisses me back.

  I lick the seam of her lips and learn their shape. I drag my tongue over the edges of her perfect, small teeth, memorizing the sharpness of her incisors. The depth of her mouth is like homecoming. I already know how it’s going to taste, but it’s new all the same.

  She moans into the kiss, a deep and keening sound that draws my balls tight. When I fold one arm around her back and the other behind her knees, she doesn’t protest. As fucked-up as this situation is, her gasp tells me she’s okay with the fact that I’m carrying her to bed. She snakes her arms around my neck when I lay her down, but I’m not done with the kissing yet. Lifting her hands above her head, I drag my fingers down the sensitive underside of her arms and over her ribs unti
l not an inch of her skin is left untouched. Goosebumps run in every direction. Her skin contracts when I circle her navel. Her nipples extend when I scrape my nails over the hard tips.

  “Ian.”

  Finally, the sound I like to hear best.

  She grabs my head, threading her fingers through my hair, but I put her hands back above her head and spread her legs. She likes to show me. She wants me to look. It makes me harder than what I already am. If my cock grows any thicker, I’m going to explode the zipper and burst through my jeans.

  Grabbing her thighs, I lick my way down to my prize. It’s a reward for my patience, for torturing myself to the point of pain. Like everywhere else, she’s perfect down there. I trace the outline of the landing strip and plant a kiss on the button between her folds. It glistens pink like a pearl. I love the feel of it in my mouth, but I get drunk on the sound she makes when I flatten my tongue and lick.

  Her cry is high-pitched, like the song of a bird. It’s something between ecstasy and pain, and I bite softly just to hear it again. When I suck, she drags her nails over my scalp the way I like. I don’t even care she’s not lying back any longer, not relaxing and simply taking the pleasure.

  She’s expressive. Responsive. It doesn’t take me long to figure out when she’s close. Her body bows, the small of her back making a gracious arch, and the bite of her nails on my skin turns delicious. I deny her, dragging it out to make it last longer. I bring her back down and slowly work her up again.

  Her porcelain skin is glistening with perspiration long before I’m done playing. Her slickness coats my chin and tongue. She doesn’t complain or beg. Like a good girl, my perfect girl, she takes what I give and follows my lead.

  She deserves her reward. Before I let her go over, I gather her arousal and sink a finger deep inside her. I want to taste and feel how she comes. She breaks with a gasp, coming in my mouth. Her inner muscles clench around my finger. She’s tight and hot and unbearably soft, just as I remember the way she felt around my cock. I pump a few times, prolonging the aftershocks of her first orgasm, because it won’t be the last. I’m going for a marathon.

  I let her come down completely, keeping my mouth and hands on her, and when every muscle in her body relaxes, I crawl over her and kiss her lips. She tastes herself on me eagerly, and my brain almost combusts. I kiss her until my jaw hurts and she pushes on my chest to create distance.

  Lifting up on my arms, I stare at her stunning, ravished face. Her lips are swollen from my kisses and her chin chafed from my stubble. Her doll-pretty hair is a tangled mess on the pillow. Fuck, I love her like this. I dive for her mouth again, but she stops me with a palm on my shoulder.

  “Wait,” she says, sounding out of breath. “Give me a moment.”

  Concern tightens my gut. My libido calms a hundred degrees, taking a backseat to my worry. Framing her face, I ask, “You okay? Need some pills?”

  She shakes her head. “I just need some air.”

  I let her have it while I study her with careful attention. Her skin is flushed and those swollen lips red. Her pupils are shot. All signs of arousal. Still, I press a finger to the vein in her neck.

  She tries to push my hand away with a tsk of her tongue, but I don’t let up until I’m certain her heartbeat is normal.

  “Too much?” I ask.

  Locking her arms around my neck, she gives me the good answer. “No.”

  If love were instantaneous, I’d fall in love with her right here and now, but love takes time and investment, both luxuries I don’t have. Lust is immediate. It’s all-consuming, and the need drives me to touch her in all those sensitive zones of her body that makes her bow to my hands.

  “Wait,” she says again.

  I stop.

  She cups my cheek. “You’re still dressed.”

  An oversight I can quickly remedy. Hating the distance I have to put between us, I make quick work of peeling off my clothes.

  She pushes up on her elbows to watch. Her gaze fixes on the tattoo under my breastbone. “What does that mean?”

  “Illigitimi non carborundum.”

  “Not the words,” she says as I advance on her. “The meaning.”

  “It’s Latin for don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

  “Why?”

  I climb over her body, sucking in a breath when my cock brushes over the inside of her thigh. “A reminder to myself.”

  “A reminder of what?”

  “Survival.”

  She traces the letters on the curve between my neck and shoulder. “Faith in love?”

  “A reminder that not everything in life is ugly.”

  She considers this before dragging her finger to the words inked on my chest. “By the grace of God go I. Are you religious?”

  “No,” I admit. “It’s a proverb that expresses humility.”

  “What’s the reminder?” she asks with a soft smile.

  “That external factors play a role in shaping us.”

  “Meaning we don’t carry all the blame for who we turn out to be?”

  “No, baby doll.” I wipe a whisp of hair from her face. “We carry all the blame. We just don’t get to take all the credit.”

  “For the good stuff, you mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Survival, humility, love,” she muses. “These qualities are so important to you, you had to engrave it in permanent ink on your skin.”

  “As I said, reminders. They serve me every time I look in the mirror.”

  She drags a hand to my hip, caressing the image of the dragon that flares from my hipbone down to my thigh. “Why a dragon?”

  Smiling, I nip her earlobe. Such a curious creature. “In the Orient, the dragon is symbol of power, wisdom, strength, and hidden knowledge. In most other traditions, it represents chaos and untamed nature. It’s a reminder of the dualism in all of us.”

  “A soulful man,” she teases, sliding a palm over the stubble on my cheek. “Which one did you get first?”

  “Faith in love.”

  “Why?”

  “For my siblings.” I’ve never told anyone this, not even Leon, but the words come easily for her. “I abandoned them.” Failed them. Even Leon, just in a different way. “This way, I keep a part of them.” Under my skin.

  She nods as if it makes perfect sense, as if she’s filled in the blanks. “What are their names?”

  I tense a little as I mention them, the guilt of old always gnawing at my gut when I think about their dirty, innocent, unloved faces. “Zoe and Damian. And Leon.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Zoe is ten years younger than me. She’ll be twenty-five now. Damian is thirty. There are only eighteen months between Leon and me.”

  “You don’t have contact?”

  I drag my lips over the spot behind her ear, inhaling the clean scent of her skin. “No, for obvious reasons.” I don’t mention that Leon is part of the gang for those same, obvious reasons.

  “Right. It’ll put them in danger.” She utters a little sigh and arches her neck to give me better access. “A tattoo seems like a good reminder. I’ve always wanted one.”

  I stop pressing kisses to her ear and push up to look at her again. My voice is stern. “No.”

  She blinks. “What?”

  “There’s no way you’re getting a fucking tattoo.”

  She stares at me with her pretty, blue gaze, her plump lips parted. “Why not?”

  “Your skin is far too perfect to put marks on it.”

  Her eyes flare. “Like you have a say.”

  That gets to me. It hits a dark note. “You better believe it.”

  “About whether I get inked?” she asks with a small laugh of disbelief.

  “If I catch you near a tattoo parlor, the unlucky guy with the machine in his hand takes a bullet for you.”

  “You’re serious!”

  “Fuck yes.”

  “What if the tattooist is a girl?”

  “I don’t have a prob
lem with shooting girls.”

  She sobers at the statement. Her gorgeous face pales. I didn’t mean it as a threat, not to her personally, but I’m not going to lie to her. What we have, this once-in-a-lifetime attraction, is too pure and perfect to spoil with untruths.

  Her body is rigid under mine now, so I make her forget with my cock, aligning the head with her sexy-as-sin pussy and pushing home. The hottest little gasp falls from her lips as I part her without preamble. I drive deeper, exorcising the uncertainty and fear until we’re back at that point where only the most basic and rawest of feelings are left. Crazed, wanton need. Her inner muscles give sweetly, letting me in. She’s hot and slick and so damn wet for me.

  For a moment, I only feel with my cock. The sensations assaulting me are so intense I can’t focus on any other part of my body. It feels so good it hurts. I concentrate on every inch I slide deeper, experiencing every ripple and grip of her muscles. When I’m fully sheathed, I take a moment to enjoy the connection. Goddamn. I want to live between her legs. She’s got me in the palm of her hand, my heart beating in her fist, but this is where home is for me.

  “Fuck, Cas.”

  I’m not lying. Her name says it all, everything I feel.

  When I start moving, she wraps her legs around my ass and her arms around my neck. She clings to me, rubbing our bodies together and meeting every one of my thrusts. I fall for her more. I dote on her clinginess. I want her to consume me.

  “Kiss me,” she says against my neck.

  I happily oblige, fusing our mouths and tongues and every other part of our bodies. We rock together. The rhythm is easy. The pace is ours. It comes naturally, in tune. I’m so turned on I’m about to lose it, but a crucial detail stabs into my mind.

  “Condom,” I say, untangling myself from her.

  She sighs, a soft sound of regret that makes me want to come inside her and to hell with the consequences, but I force the rational part of me into action and climb from the bed to go through my discarded jeans on the floor. She watches as I locate the foil packet, tear it open with my teeth, and roll the condom over my shaft before straddling her.