She moaned.
“Yeah, baby girl. I want to hear it now. I want to hear everything you’re feeling. Every groan. Every panting breath. Give it to me.”
She leaned her head back onto his shoulder, and he slid his hand into her hair, grasped it at the roots and pulled tightly.
“Oh . . .”
“You like this. It makes you feel taken over, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I like the way your whole body bows when I pull your hair. The way I can see your yielding in the way you move. It’s beautiful. And so, so hot.”
He pulled harder, the pain making her gasp.
“You like that, too.”
It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway.
“Yes, Mick.”
He pulled until her neck bent back as far as it could. He pulled harder and she had to arch her back. And groaned when he bent to kiss her throat right where it met her shoulder—her favorite spot.
“Oh, yeah, I remember, Allie. I remember everything about you,” he murmured against her skin before he bit her.
“Oh!”
Her legs nearly went out from under her, but he had a firm hold on her. He licked her skin, then bit again, harder this time, hard enough to make her draw in a long, deep breath as she tried to manage the pain. Then his tongue bathed the sore skin once more, a lovely sensation.
When he lifted her arm and bit into the delicate skin on her inner bicep, she gasped. He followed the bite with a soft, lingering kiss, then helped her straighten up and turned her around to face him.
“Can you stand by yourself?”
She nodded.
When he let her go she swayed on her feet, and he steadied her. “You okay, baby?”
She smiled. “Perfect.”
He stroked a finger across her cheek. “Yeah, I think you are. But let’s sit you down.”
He moved her until she felt the edge of her bed at the back of her knees, and he helped her to sit. He was so caring of her, so protective. It was one of the things she’d always loved about a dominant man. It was one of the things she’d always loved about Mick.
As he took off his shirt, she remembered what else she’d loved about him, but his chest and arms were even more developed now. The tattoo he’d gotten right out of high school, the fleur-de-lis that was the symbol for the city of New Orleans with the words New Orleans Fire Department in a bold font arching around it, stood out against his pale golden skin, and she noticed once more the Latin script on his forearm. She’d always loved tattoos on a man.
And his abs . . . they were absolutely flawless, a full six-pack that looked as if they’d been cut from granite. She’d felt those hard planes of muscle when he’d held her close, but seeing his body was another thing altogether. It was all pure male beauty, rough and masculine in the same way his face was. All of him matured in a way that made him seem all the more male.
The lines of his body flexed and rippled as he bent over to unlace his big black boots. When he straightened she saw the jagged scar on his ribs from the old motorcycle accident, and she wanted to reach out and run her fingers over that hurting place. She wanted to run her fingers over every inch of him. But that would have to wait until—if and when—there was going to be sex between them without these roles. He was clearly in charge now. And tonight, their first night together again, it couldn’t be any other way. She didn’t want it to be.
He kept his gaze locked on hers as he kicked his way out of his boots, then his jeans. He was bare underneath—that hadn’t changed since high school. She pulled in a breath at the sight of his cock—strong and masculine and so beautiful she had to lick her lips. She wanted to taste him. She needed him inside her. Her fingers fisted in the soft duvet.
“Good girl. Stay still for me.”
He watched her, both of them naked, two feet from each other. Her gaze traveled over his body, and there it was—the two long lines of heavy scarring on his left shin from the surgeries that had repaired the badly broken leg and put the metal rod in. She’d only had a small glimpse of it when they’d been in bed together that one time, but the room had been nearly dark then. Now she could really see what he’d been through. But she didn’t let her gaze linger—she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable—and his beautiful, naked body was a hell of a distraction.
She looked up at his face, saw his unflinching gray gaze on her, saw the power there, shivered with it.
He stepped closer, until she swore she could smell his desire, feel it running like surges of heat over her skin, making her nipples go hard. Excruciating to have him so close and not be able to reach out and touch him. Even more when he ran a hand down his stomach and brushed his fingers over the head of his cock. She bit her lip but remained unmoving, other than her clenching fingers.
“You are so damn beautiful,” he murmured. “I need you so badly it hurts. Are you hurting, too, Allie girl?”
“Please, Mick . . .”
He stroked himself once more, a long, lingering caress up the long shaft. “Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
She thought he smiled at her, but she was too mesmerized by his hand on his cock, stroking with his fingertips, then fisting for a moment before beginning to stroke again.
When he took a step toward her she pulled in a breath, and realized only then she’d been holding it. One more step and he was right in front of her. It took everything she had not to reach out for him, to remind herself that he was still in charge.
He placed his hand between her breasts, and his palm scorched her, sent shivers of desire over her skin, making her nipples harden immediately. He pressed down, and she lay back on the bed. He went with her, one knee bent next to her thigh. She was acutely aware of every inch of him: his hand on her chest, his strong thigh next to hers, the scent of him seeming to drown her senses with every breath she took. And above her, his face, which was beautiful to her despite the scars, the sharp lines of jaw and cheekbones, or maybe even more so.
“Still,” he commanded.
She wouldn’t have tried to argue right now. And she loved the authority in his tone, her body going warm and weak all over.
He began a slow sort of exploration, his hand caressing, squeezing, pinching: her stomach, her ribs, her sides, and finally, her breasts. He smoothed his palm over the full flesh, along the underside, around the nipple. Her sex was absolutely flooded with heat, soaking wet. She had to force herself not to arch her hips, not to arch her back to bring her aching breasts closer to his touch.
“You need me to touch you, baby? Tell me. Tell me exactly what you want.”
“Oh, God. I want . . . everything. I want your hands on me. I want you to pinch my nipples hard enough to hurt. I want your hand between my thighs. I want your mouth everywhere. I want you inside me.” She had to pause to draw in a long breath. “But what I need . . . is for you to kiss me, Mick. Please.”
He smiled, then leaned in, hovering over her until his mouth was an inch from hers. His tongue darted against her lower lip. She moaned quietly. Waited.
He did it again, catching her upper lip with the sleek, warm tip of his tongue. She didn’t dare move. When he did it once more, this time one long, slow lick of her lips, she sighed. His tongue felt amazing, but she needed so much more.
“Please,” she whispered. Begged.
“Shh. You’ll have to wait until I’m ready, baby girl.”
Oh, that pet name again! That and being told she’d have to wait for everything she so desperately needed. He was killing her.
He shifted until his knee was between her thighs and his hands were braced on either side of her head. He lowered his face and brushed a kiss on her cheek, his lips soft and almost unbearably tempting. He moved to kiss her other cheek, leaving her mouth empty and wanting. But desire was pouring through her system like liquid fire, fueled by his teasing. Her pussy was drenched. He knew just how to play her, to bring her need to the edge, sharp as a knife blade.