The first breast sprang free, and he sucked hard on the nipple. She arched against him, yanking at his shirt, while he made short work of the cup on the other side. He had to touch and taste all of her. To learn her, memorize every lash and freckle. To know her. Not just for sex—they’d done that already—but for possession. So that every inch of her body responded to his, so that every nerve recognized him. Only him. No wolf.
He was sorry when she kicked off her sexy heels, but he shucked his shoes, too. His mouth grazed her shoulder, thumb sliding the G-string from her hip. She did a little shake of her perfect ass, which jiggled slightly in his hand, and the bit of fabric fell to the floor.
“Bed,” she said. Demanded more like.
He was too far gone, ready to bring her to her knees and take her for the first time right there, stockings and all. Damn, he loved stockings. They made up for the maddening sticker.
She pinched him hard on his pecs. “Bed. Now.”
Brat. The sooner he was inside her, the better. He circled her waist to pick her up and kicked open the bedroom door. He didn’t mean to jar her with the doorjamb, but it was her own damn fault they were going in there in the first place. And he’d kiss that better, too.
He set her on her feet at the bed and worked the double clasp of his pants. By the time they were wrinkling on the floor she was crawling across the mattress toward the pillow.
Grabbing her ankle, he dragged her back toward him. The bed was the only comfort she was getting now. Pillows later, if she were lucky.
Annabella rolled onto her back as soon as Custo released her. She caught a flash of his green eyes, his full mouth, and his incredible physique before he came down on top of her, his tight, smooth skin rippling with muscle and incredible warmth. She expected him to ravage something—anything would be good—but he stopped, pinning her to the bed with his weight to drag a lock of hair from her mouth.
“You drive me crazy,” he said. The vibration of his chest felt amazing against her body. She responded with a deep, petulant ache at her center.
“Right back at ‘cha,” she said, lifting her head to nip at his mouth. She wriggled a little under him to let him know she was impatient.
He ignored her urgency and brushed his lips over hers, the texture smooth, the pressure hard, as if finding just the right angle to settle in. Then he kissed her so dark and hot that she forgot to breathe. It made her heart pound harder. There was only Custo, his body, and the strange climbing rhythm of the bass from the club below. She was liking his music more and more.
When he moved to her neck, stubble rasping as his mouth worked her sensitive skin, she gasped for air. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her gaze blindly casting upward.
He lowered to her breasts, which by now she knew he liked a lot. He couldn’t stop touching them. He nuzzled and sucked; the answering pull in her body was delicious. Her breath came faster as his hands traveled her contours, breast, waist, ass, thigh, branding her all over with finger trails of possessive heat. She blinked rapidly to clear her clouding mind, but his laves and strokes drove away coherent thought.
She couldn’t lose herself yet; he hadn’t admitted the truth out loud. With words.
Far off, a saxophone wailed. She grabbed hold of the sound as his mouth trailed down her belly. He climbed off the edge of the bed, hands sliding up her inner thighs, thumbs parting her.
The things the man could do with his hands.
“What’s this song?” she asked as her vision fuzzed, his warm breath both liquefying her and sending hot sparks into her core.
Custo paused, then kissed her where she ached. “ ‘Footprints.’ ”
The sax trilled up with his touch, as did the pressure rising within her. When the music fell to a lower register, she gripped the sheets, willing it to climb again. “I like it.”
Custo echoed the rhythm, coaxing the music higher against her with his demanding mouth. His kiss was wet, and hot, and hard. Maddening. When the band came together to climax, she did, too, shuddering against him on the last waves of the melody.
Every joint and muscle in Annabella’s body was happy-loose when Custo altered his hold on her, kissing her temple briskly.
“Up,” he growled, pulling her out of her languid pleasure.
Not that she was complaining. She wanted his weight on her, him inside her, moving slow and deep.
He nudged her toward the headboard, lifting her to her knees like an expert dance partner, her back to him. He took her hands, braced them on the wall, and held them there. At her ear, he said, “Arch for me.” His voice, dark with desire, had her coiling inside again. Heart pounding, she tilted her hips back for him, feeling his length behind her.
“More,” he commanded, grasping her at her waist, forcing the curve of her supple spine deeper. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation.
She relaxed into the bend, and he filled her, his clever fingers building her pleasure again. Her hands dropped to the headboard, gripped, and rode the mindless, erratic rhythm from the club with him. The music was near formless, held together by beat and voice, the sax a whine and bellow of wind, all topsy-turvy and endless. Custo wrapped his arms around her to pull her back, joined them hip to hip in his lap. She was protected and claimed, at the brink of something new and frightening, but not alone. He tensed, groaned, and sent an earthquake of dark bliss through her.
He held her when her body gave against him. She gulped for air, her head resting back against his shoulder. Solid, safe. His raw strength came in handy when he expertly adjusted their position, turning her to face him, stretching out on the bed, and tucking her against his chest, heart to heart, heat to heat.
“So are you going to tell me or what?” she said, and bit his earlobe for encouragement.
He grinned. “What? So you can be more of a pain in the ass?”
“You like my ass.”
He touched his forehead to hers. “Yes, I must admit I do.”
“So?”
“This can’t work,” he said, voice husky with emotion. “You and I.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ve covered that.” But she kissed him quick on his lips, because the reality of their situation hurt her, too.
He lifted up a bit, so that their gazes joined. “I love you, woman.”
She laughed. “Woman? Oh you smooth talker, you.”
“My woman,” he corrected, tone now deadly serious.
“You’re mine, then, because I love you, too,” she said, daring him to contradict her.
He sighed heavily, definitively, the movement a deep, changing wave upon her, and answered, “Body and soul.”
Wolf gazed at the old woman sleeping on the bed. A false, cloying scent of flowers tainted her skin, near overriding the sour sweat that dampened her forehead. Her lids flickered and she strained restlessly against her nightmare.
Yes. Now. He growled low to rouse her.
When she gasped into wakefulness, he bared his teeth. Ready.
She had to see him first, had to break with fear, or the trap wouldn’t spring.
The woman pushed up to her elbows, breathing harshly. Blinking to clear her vision.
Wolf felt the weight of her gaze settle on him and grinned more deeply, lowering his head and bunching his great hulk to spring.
The woman screamed. Loud and cracked and perfect.
Courtesy of Jack, the Chinese food showed up not too long after, eight neat white takeout boxes lined up outside the apartment door, smelling like Heaven should but didn’t. Custo could always trust Jack. Chinese and a bottle of good wine.
Custo retrieved the food and they ate it mostly naked in bed. He’d found his briefs; she wore Adam’s tux shirt buttoned once, the cuffs rolled up to her elbows. Her sitting position in bed was a ballerina stretch, one leg long to the side, the other crossed in front of her for balance, and blocking his view. He wanted to see all of her again, but he’d get to that later.