Page 297 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Can you be good for one second?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer breathlessly.

He carries me the rest of the way.

The living area opens around us in shades of silver and blue. Moonlight spills through the window over the fire escape, softening the mattress still on the floor.

He sets me down in the middle of the moonlight, his hands still on my waist and my dress hiked high from being carried against him. His gaze moves over me slowly.

“You’re beautiful in the moonlight,” he says, his thumb running over my cheek.

I push his chest until he steps back, and his gaze narrows on my hands as I reach for the tie of my wrap dress. I loosen the knot, allowing it to fall open slowly, absolutely committedto making Warren King suffer in a way that benefits both of us.

His gaze drops.

I’m wearing blue lace.

He stills.

“Breathe,” I say.

He inhales once, unevenly.

“Again.”

His eyes lift to mine, and something in them flashes. “You like giving me instructions?”

“I like watching you follow them.”

His mouth tilts, but the heat in his face darkens. “Careful.”

“No.”

“No?”

I let the dress slide off my shoulders and pool at my feet. “I don’t want careful right now.”

He walks toward me slowly, taking my hand. He walks me backward toward the mattress. I stumble once, and he catches me at the waist, dragging me against him with a low laugh. “Your apartment is a hazard.”

“I’m trying to have sex with you, Warren.” I shove his shirt. “Off.”

He removes it, and for a moment I forget whatever insult I was preparing. His tattoos move over muscles in dim light. Every hidden piece of him visible.

When I reach for his belt, he catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Eyes on me.”

My whole body obeys before my brain can make a sarcastic comment.

He kisses me once, hard, then turns me and sits on the edge of the mattress, pulling me between his spread thighs. The position makes him look even larger, shirtless and tattooed, his hair coming loose, his hands resting on my hips like he’s trying to decide whether to worship or ruin.

Knowing Warren, he will attempt both.

He slides one hand down the back of my thigh, then up again, slow enough to make my skin pebble. His thumb slips beneath the edge of my underwear and strokes me.

“Did you wear this for me?”

“Yes.”