Page 300 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Careful.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep touching me like you want me to lose my mind.”

I lean in and brush my mouth over his. “Maybe I’m desperate for you to.”

His grip tightens. “Then keep your eyes open.”

I do.

I stroke him again, watching the way his jaw clenches, the way his brows pull together, and the way the muscles in his stomach jump every time my fingers pass over the piercing. He makes sounds like he’s desperately trying to keep them back and failing, low groans and rough breaths that make me ache between my thighs again.

“You have no idea what your hands do to me,” he says.

“I have some ideas.”

“No.” His voice is wrecked. “No, you don’t.”

My back is against the mattress in an instant, and Warren is kissing me like something in him has snapped clean.

He spreads my thighs, his mouth over mine while his hips settle between my legs and the hard length of him slides against me.

The piercing catches, and I gasp.

His forehead drops to mine.

“There?”

“Yes.”

He does it again, grinding slowly, letting the metal drag through my slick heat.

“Warren,” I moan, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

“I know,” he says. “You get greedy.”

My body tightens.

“I want all of you this time,” I tell him. “We’re both clean. I just need to feel all of you. I’m on the pill.”

He pulls back and looks me in the eye. When he’s satisfied I’m certain, he nods.

His hand comes to my throat, light and waiting.

“Harder,” I whisper, swallowing against his palm. His fingers tighten, and the weight of his hand makes my body go loose. “I like your hand here.”

Warren pushes into me slowly, checking to make sure I’m not in pain. It hurts a little at first. It often does, but I want him so badly that I breathe through it, and once the initial discomfort passes, pleasure fills my entire body.

“I’ve been starving for you,” he says, nipping at my lip.

I feel every inch of him, the stretch and pressure and the wicked drag of the piercing, more intense now that he’s bare. My mouth falls open, and he watches my face, breathing hard, one hand at my throat and the other gripping my hip like he’s holding himself back.

When he’s fully inside me, neither of us moves.

Downstairs, the bar is alive.

The first thrust is slow enough to ruin me. My body tightens around him, and he lets out a strangled, low sound, his forehead falling to mine like he needs a second to survive it too.