Page 54 of Bad Decisions & Back Roads

“Rye,” I reached between us and fisted his cock.“Next time we can go slower.”

“No,” he chuckled and pushed at my shoulders.“We’re doing this my way.”

He got on his knees and kissed his way up from my ankle on a thorough journey all the way up my leg.“What did this?”

His mouth traced the scratches on my skin, tongue warm.

“An enthusiastic Doberman jumped on me the other day.Just scratches.”

“And this?”He kissed over the deep bruise along my left thigh.

“That’s where the horse kicked me.”

By the time he reached my inner thigh, my hands were fisted tight in the bedcover.I thrashed, head flung back and heedless of anything else.He could go fast or slow or whatever he wanted, but I would win.He would lose control in the end and go faster.But I could resist begging him to hurry up.I would cage the moans and give him the satisfaction of doing this the “slow” way until he did this the wayIwanted.

Then he put his mouth on me and ordered, “Watch me.”

My heartbeat pounded hard inside my ears, but I sat up to watch his mouth on me.The control on his face cracked with hunger.I realized this battle of wills was ridiculous.His composure was as flimsy as mine.After the first few swipes of his tongue, we both lost control.The white flags were raised in surrender to the demands of the other.I felt adrift, with no bearings as he dragged his tongue in ways that pushed me to unravel.Everything rattled loose.To be wanted like this eclipsed everything broken or unwanted inside me.

I didn’t want to let go.I wanted to feel him aggressively plunging into me, but then he whispered, “I’ve got you.”

And everything exploded.

I was still floating when he joined me on the bed.When his hands roamed my upper body, controlled and gentle, I urged him to get between my legs.

His hand hovered over the long scar along my side, fingertips barely brushing my skin like he was afraid pressing too hard might hurt me.Or maybe afraid of what it meant that the scar existed at all.

“What did this?”

Before I could answer, he bent his head and pressed a slow kiss against the scar.The tenderness of it made something tight in my chest pull even harder.

“A steer gouged me with a horn a few years ago,” I said softly.“Cost me a piece of my liver.”

His mouth stilled against my skin.

“Jesus,” he murmured, thumb tracing the edge of the scar now.Angry in that quiet way people got when they cared too much.“Does it still hurt?”

“Not physically.”I tried for casual, for dismissive.“My pride still hasn’t entirely recovered.I knew better than to be standing where I was.”

His eyes lifted to mine then, dark and intent enough to make me stop breathing for a second.“You risk too much in this job.”

The words weren’t judgmental.They sounded almost helpless.Like every scar he found on me was becoming something he took personally.

I curled my fingers under his chin and tipped his face up until he had to look at me instead of the marks on my body.“I like what I do.I know the risks.Let’s not talk about work.”

For a second, he watched me, his expression softening into something warm enough to melt straight through me.Then that slow grin spread across his face—the one that always made my pulse stumble.“I can do that.”

He kissed his way back up my body, lingering on my breasts again before pausing to whisper, “This is my favorite spot.”Right before he kissed along my collarbone.

“Thought so when you said it was the first place you’d put whipped cream.”

He grinned, wicked.“Someday…when I stop by your house with the fully stocked fridge…”

I ran one hand down the ridges of muscle along the arm closest to me.“I want to play this stupid banter game with you, but I’ve been wanting you inside me for almost half my life.So, can wepleaseskip this?”

He snorted out a laugh.“I knew the redhead in you wouldn’t accept the slow-down plan without a fight.”

I reached down and wrapped my hand around him and stared into his eyes, dead serious.