Page 116 of A House of Gold
For a moment, he freezes. Then he's kissing me back, and it's not sweet or romantic or anything like the lastkiss on the balcony.
This is a fight.
His hands tangle in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting. My fingers dig into his shoulders, nails finding purchase through expensive fabric. Our mouths are brutal against each other, teeth and tongue and barely controlled violence. I bite his lower lip hard enough to taste blood. He makes a sound low in his throat, half growl, half groan, and kisses me harder.
"This is a mistake," he says against my mouth, but his hands are sliding down my back, pulling me closer.
"I know." I kiss him again, deeper this time.
"This is going to ruin us both."
"I don't care."
He backs me up until I hit the wall, golden, solid, cold where my skin touches. The impact drives the air from my lungs. His body pins me there, all hard muscle and desperate heat. One hand stays in my hair while the other braces against the wall beside my head.
"Tell me to stop," he says, pulling away just enough to look at me. His gold eyes are blazing, almost glowing. "Tell me this isn't what you want."
Instead of answering, I grab the front of his shirt and pull him back into me.
He makes that sound again, the one that's pure surrender, and kisses me like he's trying to consume me. His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, down my neck, finding the pulse point. His teeth scrape against sensitive skin and I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair.
"You're playing with fire," he warns, his breath hot against my throat.
"Then burn me. Bake me. Brand me. It can’t be worse than this ache. "
Something snaps in him. I feel it through the binding, the last thread of his control breaking.
His hands find the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing against bare skin. The touch sends electricity through me. He pauses, giving me one more chance to stop this, to push him away.
I raise my arms instead.
He pulls my shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. For a moment, he just stands there, his hands hovering over my skin like he's afraid to touch. Like he's memorizing this moment.
"I can't see you," he says quietly. "But I want to know you. Every inch. Will you let me?"
It's the asking that does it. The vulnerability underneath the possessiveness.
"Yes," I whisper.
His hands settle on my waist, warm, certain. They slide up slowly, mapping the curve of my ribs, the soft plane of my stomach. His thumbs brush the underside of my breasts through my bra and I arch into the touch, wanting more.
"So soft," he murmurs. "So warm. How are you so warm?"
"Croesus," I warn. Because now he’s just teasing me, especially with how we started.
"I want to taste every inch of you." His mouth finds my collarbone, kissing a path across heated skin. "I want to learn what makes you gasp. What makes you beg."
His hands move to my back, finding the clasp of my bra. He pauses again, still giving me the choice.
I reach up and undo it myself.
The bra falls away and his hands are there immediately, cupping, weighing, learning the shape of me. His thumbs brush over my nipples and I make a sound I've never made before, desperate and needy.
"There," he says with satisfaction. "That's what I wanted to hear."
His mouth follows where his hands have been, and I'm lost. My head falls back against the wall, hands tangled in his hair,holding him to me. Even the shining gols strands of his hair feel like silk. Every touch is deliberate, thorough. He's learning me, cataloging what makes me respond, what makes me writhe against him.
"Croesus, lease." I’m not above begging right now.
