Page 178 of Off Limits: The Firsts

One hand holds my neck hostage to allow his lips to take what they want, while his other fists in the back of my panties and twists tightly so the fabric cuts against my skin.

Push him away.

He tugs on my bottom lip with his teeth.

Tell him no.

The hardness of his erection grinds against me.

Oh my God.

The firmness of his chest beneath my palms.

I missed this.

The hunger in his every action.

I missed him.

His breath is ragged when he rips his lips from mine, eyes blazing into mine, as we stare at each other, hands still owning the other’s body in some way or another.

“Goddammit, Dekk,” he groans. “Don’t fucking toy with me. Tell me you want this. Tell me you need this as much as I do.”

His voice sounds like how I feel—desperate, needy, ready to detonate.

The knowledge that I can break the control of a man like him, is beyond explanation. I want him. How he sates all desires. How he devastates all reason.

Him.

More of him.

Now is the time to feel every ounce, every inch, everything, he’s willing to give me.

Chills chase up my spine as I stare at him and anticipate and debate and throw caution to the wind.

Who cares about hot chocolate and grilled cheese now?

It’s my lips that meet his this time. It’s my teeth that nip the tattoo on his shoulder. It’s my fingernails that score their way down the side of his torso. It’s my hand that slides inside the waistband of his boxer briefs and encircles his rock-hard cock. It’s his body that tenses beneath my touch.

There’s intensity to our actions, an urgency. A need to hurry up to the endgame and slow down at the same time.

I ache and burn and yearn every place Hunter’s hands touch and his stubble scrapes.

We are a mass of hands and lips and grinds as we stumble the few steps to the bed. His underwear comes off as we walk. His fingers unclasp my bra as I shove down my panties.

I lied the other night.

I don’t care about finesse when it comes to Hunter. I care about his hands gripping, his hips thrusting, his teeth nipping, his cock sliding.

My body vibrates as his hands take and claim and knead my breasts, my hips, my ass.

“Dekker,” he groans, his lips against my breast, my skin vibrating under the strain of how he says my name. His hand fists in my hair, and he pulls my head back so I’m forced to look in his eyes as he stands back to full height.

My body is raw and wanting, and the seconds we waste as he stares at me, as his eyes wander up and down every inch of my body, has me itching to reach out and take what I want.

I open my lips, swollen from his, to speak, to tell him to destroy me in the most delicious of ways, but there’s something in his look that tells me he needs this as much as I do . . . but for such very different reasons.

“Turn around,” he orders and I obey, anticipation held with bated breath.