Page 130 of Ruthless Intent

Her lashes drop to hide her eyes, and she swallows.

“Liar. You liked it, and you came back for more.” I press my lips to the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.

My senses are going crazy. I can’t think straight. The heat of her body against mine, the feel of her skin under my fingers, under my lips, is messing with my focus.

Just like earlier, being this close to her stops me thinking about all the things I have to do, and makes me think about things I want to do.

Things I shouldn’t want. Not with this woman.

But no matter how much I remind myself that she is everything I shouldn’t want, I still lower my head so I can kiss a path across her shoulder.

“Turn around.” I drop my hands to her hips and turn her to face me. “Say no.”

I need her to stop me. To fight me. Because I can’t think of any reason not to do this.

She stays silent.

My hands slide upward, over her stomach, up her sides, beneath her thin top until my thumbs brush the curve of her breasts. I reverse direction, smoothing my palms over her soft skin until I reach the waistband of her pants.

I don’t stop there. My fingers hook into the elastic and I drag them down her legs, lowering myself to my knees.

“It’s been a while,” I whisper, “but I’m pretty sure it’s just like riding a bike.” I glance up at her. “Last chance to say no, Firecracker.”

I don’t want her to say no. I want my mouth on her pussy. I want my tongue on her clit.

In reply, she drops a hand into my hair and drags my face against her.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

ASHLEY

The first touch of his tongue against my clit sets off explosions through my entire body.

How can something so wrong feel so good?

His hands curve over around my thighs, and he lifts one of my legs to rest over his shoulder. The move opens me up and gives him better access to me, and he takes full advantage of it.

My fingers curl into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, as he licks, and sucks at my already-sensitive clit. He feasts on me like a man starved, and I can barely withstand the assault on my senses.

My heart is hammering, it’s hard to breathe. It’s harder to think, and when that little voice whispers through my head, telling me that I shouldn’t be doing this, it’s silenced by the waves of pleasure he’s causing.

It doesn’t matter what’s gone between us at this moment. It doesn’t matter that he hates me. It doesn’t matter that I hate him.

Do I hate him?

All that matters is his mouth, his tongue, and the high I’m speeding toward. When it hits, I try to pull his head away, but he growls and the sound vibrates against my skin, increasing the intensity of the orgasm he’s pulling from me.

I’m panting, sobbing. I’m clutching at his hair, his shoulder. I’m begging for him to stop, to continue. I’m pleading for more.

He ignores my whimpers, and continues to lick, and flick, and suck, and nip, while my hips buck, and I writhe against his mouth, as one orgasm turns into a second.

When he pushes one finger inside me, I throw my head back, sucking in lungfuls of air, and try to wrestle back control of my traitorous body.

I’m in sensory overload. I can’t think. Can’t function. All I can focus on is the way he slides his finger in and out of my body, in time with the laps of his tongue.

Nothing else matters.

And then time stops, stands still, and I balance on the edge of the chasm.

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