Page 56 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
Had I said I wanted to be seen? Old sayings are old sayings for a reason: because they’re true. Be careful what you wish for. I’m sitting here vulnerable, feeling more naked than I have when I’ve been stripped of clothes. And it’s uncomfortable. It’s frightening.
It’sexhilarating.
I choke back a cry and dig my fists into the couch cushions. My nails bite into the flesh of my palms, and the sting should ground me, center me, but it doesn’t. It only serves to heighten the vivid intensity of this moment. I’m seeing in sounds, breathing in colors, hearing in scents—everything is upside down because he’s ripped me open.
Those eyes that never miss a thing drop to my stiff arms, to my tightly curled hands, and then slowly rise to my face. He studies me for several long moments, and I struggle to remain impassive, to conceal the emotional maelstrom whipping me to shreds.
“Do you want to touch me?”
“No.” My answer is reflexive, born of years of learning to depend on myself.
But inside ... inside, a wail shouts at me to take, take what’s being offered. But I can’t. Old habits die hard. And at this point, I don’t even know how to take what I want. The one time I did, I ended up in my current situation: lying to him.
“Do you want me to make you touch me?”
Take the choice from me? Let me lean on all that strength for this moment? Let him hold me like in my description of my perfect date?
I can’t ...
“Yes,” I whisper.
He moves closer. And closer still. Breathing is a precious memory. Thinking is an outdated ideal.
His big hands gently grasp my wrists, and his fingers wrap around them, branding my skin. He lifts my arms, and I watch them, as if they don’t belong to me. I watch as he guides my hands to his wide dress-shirt-covered chest. One by one, he uncurls my fingers, running his fingertips along their lengths. That caress to each digit streaks down my palms and my arms to my breasts, my nipples, reminding me I’m very much attached. I’m very much present andalive.
He flattens my hands to his chest, and the beat of his heart echoes between my legs, my sex picking up the rhythm, and I squeeze my thighs against the ache that takes up residence there. It’s useless, though. I’m becoming that tempo, everything in me transforming to surrender to it.
A moan slips up from the core of me—that hot, slippery, empty core of me—to my throat, and I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to trap it.
“More?”
More?
I lift lashes I hadn’t realized had drifted down and meet ice-blue fire. There’s more? I’m already on fire and so wet. And hurting. It would be the height of greed and foolishness to reach formore...
“Yes.”
Without breaking our visual connection, he strokes his hands up my arms and curves, then over my shoulders. Slowly, as if granting me time to object, he draws me forward until he’s sitting in the couch’s far corner and I’m tucked between his sprawled legs, curled against his chest. His body heat envelops me, warming his wood-and-leather scent so it’s rich and heavy on my tongue and nostrils. His arms and legs brace me, enfold me ... protect me. I’m sheltered on all sides. And at my hip ...
The rigid, thick length of his cock.Oh God.
I close my eyes.
My sex spasms. Hard. And I clench my teeth against the sweet pain of it.
That big heavy dick against me should be enough to prevent me from relaxing, but it doesn’t. It has just the opposite effect. I melt into his frame like butter left out in the sun.
How long we sit there, I don’t know. One episode plays through. Then another. At the start of the second one, his fingers feather through my hair. Hesitant at first, but then, when I don’t object, with more confidence and ... enjoyment. His nails scrape my scalp, and I shiver. His big body stiffens behind me.
Then he does it again.
I shiver again.
Those fingers tangle in my curls, fisting them, and tiny pinpricks scatter along my scalp. A gasp slips free from my mouth, and I tip my head back, my lips grazing the underside of his jaw. Just that—just that slight, accidental brush—leaves his flavor on my skin. Slicking my tongue over my bottom lip, I sample him, anddamn. He tastes sogood. The musk of cedar, the earthiness of leather, and the indescribable but wholly unique tang of him.
It’s my new favorite meal.
He remains so still, and I should heed that as a sign. But he has his hand in my hair, and hunger is a real thing now. Besides, he invited me to take. And I’m taking.
