Page 69 of Love Me Tomorrow

I swallow, hard, and tenderly cup his bearded jaw. “The fantasy finally comes to life.”

Emotion flickers in his black eyes. “You good with me making it better than the fantasy?”

The word “yes!” bursts from me like a round from a shotgun, and it’s all the encouragement he apparently needs.

His hand splays across my naked back, holding me in place. He leans down, cheeks flushed with desire, and then his mouth is on my nipple and all I can do isfeel. Feel his teeth scraping the sensitive flesh. Feel his ripped abs as he gives me all of his weight. Feel the metal of his belt buckle like a brand on the inside of my thigh.

Owen consumes me, and surrounds me, and it isnothinglike anything I’ve ever experienced. Even with him still on his knees on the floor, his size is overwhelming. Indicative of how much power he wields—canwield—should he want.

But even when his touch is rough, possessive, it’s followed with the slick glide of his tongue on my skin, easing the burn, erasing the hurt, while still managing to torture me relentlessly.

“More,” I beg shamelessly, squirming in his grip, “please, I need—”

“I know exactly what you need, sweetheart.” The hand that was cupping my breast lazily drifts south, down past my softly toned belly, down to my neon-green underwear. It’s bold and obnoxious, and Owen either doesn’t care or barely notices because he hooks a finger in the elastic waistband and begins to drag the material down my legs, wordlessly demanding that I lift my butt. “Remember how I said that I was goin’ to make you beg?” he asks gruffly.

I nod slowly. “Yes.”

“Give me your hands.”

“You told me that,” I whisper, “when you got out of the limo in California. You said,give me your hand.”

Midnight-hued eyes flicker to my face, and in them I finally see so much. The former hurt, the current lust. The hard planes of his naked, inked chest heave with a jagged breath. “You didn’t, then.”

“I was scared,” I admit softly. “Scared of how easily I’d cave if I let you.”

The rasp of his leather belt sliding past the denim loops of his jeans echoes like a foghorn in my ears. “I was gonna kiss your hand,” he says, his voice so low that I nearly miss the words, “sweet. The quintessential gentleman.”

My heart trips over itself. “Oh.”

“I’m not going to kiss your hand now, Rose. You hold them out to me and I’m gonna cinch this belt nice and tight around your wrists, and then I’m going to spread your knees and worship you the way only a sinner can.” A small pause. “Scared now?”

I drag in a breath that seems to rattle its way past my lips. I amshaken, right down to my core. Shaken, but not scared. Although I’ve never once pictured Owen tying me up, I can’t say that the thought disgusts me. If anything, my toes are digging into the rug with budding anticipation. I want it. I wanthim. However he’ll give it to me, leather belt looped around my wrists and all.

Like I’m some sort of bold temptress, I hold out my hands. “I don’t scare easily.” And then, to slam it home, I wink at him. “Sorry to disappoint. I feel like I’m crushing your illusions of me, one sexual act at a time.”

He throws back his head with a bark of rich, masculine laughter that I feel like a caress down my spine. The belt finds my wrists even as his mouth comes down, hard, over mine. He tastes like fresh mint and slightly bitter, like beer, and then all rational thought hits a dead end when my wrists kiss behind my back and the belt tightens and Owen—my big, tatted, stoic Owen—lets out the sexiest groan I’ve ever heard.

“Gorgeous,” he mutters, maybe to me, maybe to the universe, “and all mine.”

That one, I think, is to me.

His hands spread my thighs. Then, just like he did yesterday at Inked, he drags my ass forward, so I’m poised off the edge of the table. He holds my weight like I’m his most treasured possession, his grip cupping my butt cheeks, his nose trailing up my inner thigh, breathing me in.

Owen is a vision between my legs.

A dark-haired, bearded, inked god of a vision.The Prince of Darkness. It fits—perfectly.

I make a move to reach for him, to sink my hand into all that luscious hair, but the belt is a firm reminder that I’m meant to beg—for now, at least. He’s taking what he wants, putting his will into action, while acknowledging that I’ll demand the same of him later.

And that’s okay.

It’s a compromise, a back and forth, and then—

“Owen.”

His tongue flicks out against my clit, so softly, such a teasing caress that my back arches in want of more. Immediately I struggle against the restraints. But the smug bastard only lifts his unholy gaze, holds mine forone . . . two . . . three, and then swirls his tongue in a slow, torturous circle.

“I hate you,” I manage on a tight, breathless moan. “I take it back. No belt. I need . . . I need—”

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