Page 10 of Thirst
His fingers tightened on my throat, just a little. At the same time, his thumb continued its slow stroke up and down my jaw, like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck me or hurt me. Or maybe both.
And now my own fingers had curled around his pink satin lapel, pulling him closer.
My show was a success, and the high of that still fizzed in my veins, begging for an outlet. It made me reckless. Made me want to take, even if it meant bleeding for it tomorrow.
I needed this. Needed Cain.
It had only ever been him, from the moment we met two summers ago in Montreal.
No one else tempted me.
No one else felt right.
His gaze dropped to where I was holding his lapel. He quirked a brow. “You want me to stop touching you? Then let me go.”
I filled my lungs with some much-needed oxygen. So what if he knew I’d been on the island? I could explain. Later.
“If we’re doing this,” I said, “we have to be fast, before someone tells Jerome I disappeared.”
The fingers around my choker tightened a little more. “Oh, we’re doing it.”
With a hum of approval, I dragged at Cain’s shirt, yanking it out of his waistband, needing skin—his skin—under my hands. My palms skated over the hard lines of his abdomen, up his narrow waist, then around to the solid strength of his back. Every inch of him a dare I couldn’t help answering.
His knees bent, his hips rocking into mine. I gasped as a ripple of pleasure went through me.
His lips twitched into an arrogant smile. “I shouldn’t let you get away with this,” he said, almost to himself.
“Shut up.”
I lifted up on my toes, angling my pelvis so he touched where I ached. His hand moved around my throat to my nape, and he sank his teeth into my lower lip, just hard enough.
My mouth opened and then we were kissing, the current between us going haywire, jumping and sizzling.
I moaned and sucked on his tongue, nipped at his lips. His hands moved over my body, finding all my most sensitive places like a heat-seeking missile.
When he drew back, I whimpered in protest. His lips moved to my neck, his stubble an erotic rasp against my skin.
When his mouth opened against my throat, I tensed, prepared for him to switch up on me—demand answers. It would be like Cain to soften me up, then go for the jugular.
But he didn’t ask about the island. Instead, he said, “Who’d you wear this choker for?”
“No one,” I said, instinct making me lie. Because that was the world I’d grown up in, the kind where you protected your vulnerable parts if you wanted to survive. “It matched the dress, that’s all.”
He growled against my skin. “If you can’t tell the truth, I guess I’ll take it back.” His fingers went to the catch.
My hand shot up, catching his wrist. “No—it’s mine.”
His head lifted, eyes searching mine. “So you wore it for me. Say it.”
I swallowed. “Yes. I wore it for you.”
“Fucking right you did. Because this throat is mine.”
A delicious shiver went over me. I liked hearing that, liked pretending Cain had a claim on me.
“Yes,” I said, voice husky.
“Good girl.” He dragged his fingertips from the clasp down my upper spine, then hooked a hand around my nape for another deep kiss. When he released me, he slapped my ass. “Take off the thong.”
