Page 69 of The Cruiser
Morgan eyes me—how tightly I’m gripping the chair back, the shrill rise of my voice—and dials back his anger. “You don’t need to be perfect. Just be you.”
“I’m trying, okay? I’m trying not to live up to impossible standards.” I feel tears leaking and take a deep breath to control them. I’m revealing layers I won’t be able to cover back up. “It’s hard.”
He moves closer, one finger feathering my trembling chin toward his. Our eyes lock. Maybe he sees my shame, my failure. Sees it all and isn’t afraid. “I like you just the way you are,” he says. “Maddeningly Vandana.”
“Maddeningly?”
“Yes,” he says, the word ringing with raw defeat. “You are driving me mad. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
He possesses my mouth, damn near swallows me alive in an engulfing kiss. In the crush of his arms, it’s like I’m a match igniting, and my fears and uncertainty combust into an inferno of desperate, scorching need. Our hips crash together like two raging rivers of lava and Morgan groans, his tongue drilling deeper. His vital male glory throbs hard between my legs and torches my insides into a quivering, molten mess.
There are only two temperatures with Morgan: hot and hotter.
All I want to do is burn.
His mouth rips off mine suddenly and before I know what’s happening, he scoops me into his arms.
“What are you doing?” I ask, breathless, legs limp and dangling.
“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “But you need to be punished.”
He scours the abandoned restaurant, barreling straight ahead at what he’s spotted. In the mad rush, he hip-checks a chair, and my foot catches on the back of it. One of my patent stilettos falls to the floor, and I watch it become smaller and smaller until it disappears behind the swing of the kitchen door closing.
Oh my. In here?
It’s dark and warm, the air thick with rich butter and slippery oil. Morgan crooks me onto one hip, and with his free arm sweeps a collection of pots and pans on the countertop onto the floor. Like I’m today’s lunch special, he dumps me onto the countertop, the stainless steel counter cool and hard under my ass.
“Morgan,” I say hoarsely, but his tongue silences me. He’s a marauding force I submit to as he shoves my skirt up and rips the elastic of my thong with a violent snap.
“Those were my favorite,” I gasp, watching them fly over his shoulder. And at $200 a pop, Agent Provocateur aren’t exactly disposable.
“I’ll buy you ten more,” he mutters and yanks me to the counter’s edge, the unforgiving metal robbing my bare ass of a layer of skin.
“Ow!”
Hoisting my legs into a position I thought only my gynecologist would be familiar with, Morgan grabs an empty five-gallon pail, upends it and plants his ass for a full view of my lady bits. “You’re going to feel more than that,” he assures me.
Without warning or pretense, his tongue takes a devastating pass and it’s Fourth of July fireworks times one million, the explosion like being shot out a cannon.
“Fuck,” I moan, the soles of my feet clinging to the counter’s hard edge. “This is crazy.”
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he says.
Over my heaving chest and through the very unladylike splay of my legs, our eyes meet. The certainty of what’s going to happen is undeniable. But he’ll walk away if I say the word. He will not let himself be painted with the same brush as Renan.
I’ve never desired a man more.
Let the record show Vandana Hillman abstains from speaking.
The mute nod of my head is all the tacit understanding he needs, and the immediate, urgent suction on my clit, still tender from last night, breaks me. I’m not one to make a lot of noise, but try being silent when you’re flung across the erotic universe. Morgan fucks with his tongue the way ducks paddle underwater. You can’t see it happening, but man, is it effective. He works me, ripple after ripple, and I’m powerless against the pleasure, the spiraling darkness coming way too soon.
“Slow down,” I plead. “Slow, slow, slow.”
But he’s out for destruction, on a mission, a time trial, and to speed things along, his finger drifts lower to circle on a spot he hinted at yesterday. My legs convulse and I gasp hard in response.
“Is that okay?” His lips hum against my swollen ones. How he manages to crouch on a bucket and operate so effectively without cramping is some gymnastics miracle.
“Just … on the outside. For now.”
