Page 36 of Slow Burn (Driven 5)
I scramble up from the couch, and I stare at the broad lines of his back as he walks away from me, both hands shoving through his hair as he confuses me even more when he mutters something else about the click and how it’s fucking ridiculous. “Haddie …” My name is a groan on his lips, but when he falls silent, I can’t figure out what in the hell he wants right now.
I’m so primed with need, so invigorated by his kiss and amped up with anger, that my body reacts on instinct. I want him—no, need him—to quiet the constant sadness that hasn’t been silent since the last time we were together. And hell yes, I know I want to use him right now. Need him to use me right now. Because if I know it’s mutual, I won’t feel bad when I have to walk away because I can’t commit to anything more than this with him.
Or anyone.
I step into him, cup him through his jeans, and bring my lips to his. He tries to resist me at first, tries to talk, but I can feel the pulse of his dick through the fabric as it hardens. His breath hitches and his body tenses with the demands made by my greedy hands. But when our mouths meet again, a vicious meeting of lips and unspoken needs, he relents. He kisses me back with just as much aggression. We bruise and nip and take from each other. Our actions scream anger, carnality, pure need, but he doesn’t touch me, hands flat against the wall beside him.
I tear my lips from his, as his refusal to touch me—a blatant denial of what I want—challenges me, urges me to push a little harder, seduce a little more. I’m a woman used to getting what I want, and what I want is him. I decide to change tactics and press my lips to the underside of his jaw, lacing openmouthed kisses up the line of his neck. His skin is warm. the slight taste of salt and pure Becks hits my tongue and enrages the heat he seems to control within me.
He remains stiff—both in posture and in my hand—as he wavers on whether to give into the primal need that continually reverberates between us or to resist this temptation for whatever reasons he seems to have. And I don’t care what the reasons are, nor do I want to think about how impressive his restraint is, because all I want to do is satisfy the ache in my core.
“Haddie, we can’t … my rules … We shouldn’t—”
“Sh-shh!” My finger is on his lips stopping him. “I know … but we’ve broken all the rules so far. Why stop now?” I look at his lips and then back up to his eyes before leaning in closer, my teeth tugging on his earlobe in a move that earns a hiss from him to help reinforce the words I murmur in his ear. “Please, Becks. I want to feel you.”
“Damn you, Had. I’m trying to do the right thing here.” His hands start to move now, his head angling back, and I fear it’s so that he can pull away from me, so I curl my fingers in his hair to hold him still.
I wait for him to look into my eyes so he can see how badly I want this. How badly I need this. “You can respect me all you want later. Right now, though, I’m all about doing what’s wrong.” I see a flicker of unfettered need in his gaze and know he wants me. Know that he’s riding that razor-thin line of restraint. Time to tip the scales. “I want you to make me feel owned.”
His eyes widen, his teeth clench, and I know I’ve gotten him with my forward demands. My body tenses in reaction at his silent acknowledgment.
We stare at each other in a suspended state of acceptance of the hard and fast that is about to happen. I feel like everything raging inside me is reflected perfectly in his eyes and in that telling hitch of his breath.
And between one heartbeat and the next Becks’s mouth is suddenly on mine, where it belongs. One hand fists in the sequined shirt on my back and presses my body against his while the other cups my ass through my skirt, fingers kneading into the flesh there. He nips my bottom lip, soothing it with a tender lick of his tongue before taking ownership of the kiss once again.
There’s something about the way he kisses that makes me hope he never stops. Soft and firm. Demanding yet giving. Teasing but desperate. I get lost in it. Get lost to him. I can’t think. His tantalizing assault on my mouth doesn’t allow me to. I’m ready and willing, my body his for the taking, and he’s done nothing more than kiss me.
That single thought breaks through the haze of desire clouding my mind and causes little flutters in my stomach and tingles in my toes at the anticipation of what’s to come.
I want to urge him to hurry, to rip my clothes off and take me right here, right now, but something tells me that I might have gotten away with ordering Beckett Daniels around one time, but one time is all I’m going to get.
Becks just might be that rebel at heart that I go for after all. Sweet, ever-loving fuck yes!
My hands find the hem of his shirt and snake their way beneath the fabric so I can score my fingernails against the hardened slab of muscle. I feel his torso flinch in reaction, as I use touch to entice him, to connect with him, to tease him. I map my hands along his flank and then up the strong lines of his back.
His hands inch under my skirt so that his fingers can tempt my bare flesh. Chills race across my skin from his incendiary touch despite the surge of heat intensifying with each passing second. I lift my leg and wrap it around his hip so the apex of my thighs rubs perfectly against his denim-clad erection.
The moan falls from my lips without thought. My hands act on reflex to pull his shirt over his head while our mouths break contact for the first time so that it can pass over his face, and then our lips crash back together as if we need each other’s air to breathe.
My hands roam freely now. So many places to discover, so many nerves to tease into a frenzy. And I know it’s working—the combination of kissing and touching—because slow-and-steady Becks begins to move faster, dominance evident in his touch, but he’s anything but steady. Cupping my face, taking the leisurely trip from the curve of my ass up the line of my spine to fist my length of hair, demanding more of me from our kiss before easing back some and then starting the process all over again.
I’m left breathless by his thoroughness—no man has ever kissed me this completely—and I’m ready to scream for him to lay me back on the couch or table or floor and press into my wetness. Drive me to the edge so that I can score his back and yell out his name.
“Becks …” His name is a pant on my lips, my call to him that foreplay is overrated because right now I don’t care about lighting the fuse or the leftover collateral damage.
I’m in the moment—the here and now—and all I care about is the detonation, the need for release.
I allow my hands to leave his skin for a moment, crossing them in front of me as I pull my shirt over my head, tossing it to the side without a second thought. And hell if the groan that Becks emits from the back of his throat when he realizes that there’s nothing else beneath my top—no bra, nothing—isn’t sexy as hell and spurns my need brighter.
I back away fr
om him, ready to take this erotic dance to the next step. I stay facing him and retreat to the couch until the backs of my legs hit the edge. He follows, eyes locked on mine before momentarily running up and down my naked chest, miniskirt, and high heels. My lips are numb from his kisses and my sex is damp and humming with anticipatory need.
And he just stands there, fists clenched, body tense, staring at me as if the thoughts in his head are working way too hard when it’s the other head on his body that I want working hard in me right now.
“Fuck me, Becks.” I have no shame in admitting that I want him. No embarrassment in confessing my needs. But a trace of unease tickles the base of my spine when he stands there and looks at me, head angled to the side, eyes probing through the darkened room into mine.
He glances up to the ceiling momentarily as if he’s gathering his strength to push me away. Panic fires anew because his words from moments ago hit me. I’m not letting you go until we talk. I know that he’s going to start asking questions I don’t want to answer. But why now? Why in the middle of what was about to become some incredible nail-scratches-down-his-back and teeth-marks-left-in-my-shoulder type of sex?
