Page 91 of Bad Girl
Not once she took my knot.
“Are you coming in or not?” Nika snapped.
I was fairly certain she would have stamped her foot again if the cramp hadn’t stolen the energy for it.
“Is that an invitation?” I said carefully.“Because once I’m in your nest, I’m not leaving until we’re both thoroughly satisfied.”
Her eyes travelled down my body. Slowly. Unhurried. The way you looked at something you were committing to memory—every detail, every line, taking her time about it in a way that was doing nothing constructive for my self-control.
Her eyes drooped. Her lips parted. Her head tilted as she scented the air between us.
Her scent deepened.
She was absolutely drenched and still making me wait, the obstinate, magnificent, infuriating woman.
I held myself at the edge of the bed through what I can only describe as an act of extraordinary will.
“I wholeheartedly invite you,” she muttered.
I didn’t move for a second.
Her fingers raked through her chestnut hair until some of the strands fell forward over the pink bra. Her chest and neck were flushed—a heated, paler rose against the lace.
I eased myself onto the bed. She shifted to make room without being asked.
The moment I was close enough she raised her arms and I moved to capture her lips. Soft. Wet. My hands found the small of her back and I made quick work of the waistband, tearing it cleanly from the seam.
She didn’t notice. She was too occupied trying to press herself against me.
I was in control now.
The skirt went somewhere behind me. The bra I handled carefully—unhooked, not damaged. I wanted to see it on her again.
Her hands found my shoulders. Her lips pressed harder, hungry, and I pushed my tongue between her parted lips. She hissed and pulled me down by the neck, her hips rising to meet me.
The damp lace dragged along my knot before she settled back, her head drooping, breaking contact as she panted. The heat of her breath moved across my wet lips. I stared at her exposed throat.
Her guard was down.
The heat locked into place.
My rut was sure to follow.
I hooked my thumb beneath the last of it and pulled it free. The cerise scrap of lace. I held like a trophy before I pressed the slick-coated material to my face. We breathed it in. Her scent. Unique to us alone.
Our mate had chosen. She’d been brave enough to trust us and it was ours to give her everything she needed.
I pressed her shoulder and pushed her onto her back, towering above her until all I could see were those silver eyes. Her hands moved along my chest and came to rest on my shoulders.
My eyes dropped.
The room was warm and dim around us—her flat, her colours, her scent layered into every surface. And at the centre of all of it, her.
Bountiful. Plump. Those sweetly curved mounds begging to be worshipped. I marvelled at the dusky peaks, darker than the surrounding skin.
I dropped down and dragged my tongue across her areola. Covered it. Lashed it with the tip of my tongue.
“Conrí,” she moaned, arching her back to offer me everything.
