Page 52 of Vetted for Vengeance
“I’m glad you felt…” Rhys searches for the right word before settling on the most accurate one. “Safe.”
He has no idea how long I've needed to feel safe.
“Goodnight.”
I turn away from him. I don't want to be alone, but I respect his need for space. He grabs my wrist before I can leave. Bruising tight.
“Do you really feel safe with me?”
“Yes,” I reply without a doubt. “I feel safe with you.”
He tugs on my arm, pulling me into him with more force than necessary. I stumble into his chest, and before I can recover, his hand is in my hair, pulling me in for a kiss.
He holds me so tightly, I feel like I might never breathe again. I could die in his arms tonight… and still call it the best day of my life.
Luckily, I suppose, he releases me enough to drag air into my lungs.
“I want you,” he admitted.
“I… me…yes…too.”
He shoves me against the wall, kissing me again, while kicking off his shoes with the opposite foot.
“Bedroom?” he growls, the questioning tone only implied. He's already made the decision.
“Uh-huh,” I agree, my brain completely offline.
Our passionate frenzy stops dead. Rhys kneels before me and starts tugging my shoes off. It seems no amount of passion will excuse wearing shoes beyond the hallway.
One minute I'm mid-kiss, then I'm waiting patiently for someone to remove my shoes for me. Then, without warning, his hand closes around my wrist and I'm being dragged up the stairs.
Passion mixed with his OCD is still more affection than I've experienced in years.
He drags me into his bedroom, and for a moment, my brain stalls.
I'm in his bedroom.
It's tidy and as much of a show home as the rest of the house, but this is his bedroom.
He sleeps in this room.
He takes his clothes off in this room.
He's taking his clothes off now.
Once the tie and jacket are off, he kisses me again; my eyes close, my mouth widens.
And then he's gone.
I stumble slightly as he releases me to fold his jacket and hang his tie, then he's back. My arms raise, wrapping around his shoulders as he pulls me back towards the bed. Our shirts come off in a flurry of movements, my hands find the muscular planes of his chest, gradually working lower to the waistband I want to attack next time he lets me breathe.
Then he moves away again. The shirts get picked up and hung on hangers.
He looks at me and must see something in my expression that draws awareness to his action. “Sorry.”
“It's fine. We can hang everything properly if it helps.”
I pull off a sock and throw it at his head.
