Page 45 of Offside Bride

Before I can process what’s happening, Sawyer’s lips crash into mine. It’s not a gentle kiss—it’s all fire and fury, filled with pent-up frustration and desire. He cuffs both my wrists with one hand and presses them above my head against the pantry door.

“Now tell me,” he growls.

“Go to H-E double hockey sticks.”

A hint of laughter plays on Sawyer’s lips. His body presses me harder against the pantry, and his fingers tighten around my wrists.

“I see the way you look at me. Why do you insist on making trouble?”

His mouth crashes on mine again. Short and hot. Then his eyes burn into me, waiting for an answer.

When I don’t respond, he growls more forcefully, “Why?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper, breathless and dizzy.

He smiles and takes my mouth again. I try to resist, I really do. But as his tongue traces the seam of my lips, demanding entry, I find myself melting. It’s angry and passionate and absolutely delicious.

Sawyer’s hot mouth dips to my jawline, then down my neck, tasting every inch of my skin, totally messy and feral. He is so beautiful and perfect, I might die. The groan of appreciation that starts low in his chest and escapes his mouth rumbles against my skin like a seismic phenomenon.

I can’t think straight.

“You’re mine,” he hums into my neck, and I almost forget why I was even mad at him in the first place.

He effortlessly spins me around and hoists me by the waist onto the kitchen table. My heart races, a rush of excitement coursing through me.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, his eyes dark with desire.

I glare at him, still annoyed despite the heat pooling in my belly. “I want to kill you,” I spit out.

He laughs, the sound sending tendrils of pleasure over my skin. His hands are everywhere. His lips are everywhere.

My hands, which were pushing against his chest, now fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, my body betraying me as I fold into his embrace.

Then he gently pushes my back down against the tabletop.

“No!” I yelp, squirming beneath him. “People eat here.”

“Mmmmm,” he murmurs against my neck, tugging gently on my hair.

“It’s unsanitary.”

His rumbly laugh tickles my skin. “I’ll buy a new table.”

I try to summon my anger, but it’s rapidly dissolving under his touch.

“I hate you,” I manage to say, though it lacks any real conviction.

“No, you don’t,” he counters confidently.

“Why did you cancel on me?” I demand, needing answers before I completely lose myself in him.

“Family problems,” he says tersely. “Who sent you the flowers?”

“None of your business,” I retort.

“Oh, I think it’s my business,” Sawyer says, moving on to kiss my belly button.

“And what makes you think that?” I challenge, even as my traitorous body arches into his touch.

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