Page 94 of Myla: The Hawthornes

Letting out a shallow breath, I let the towel fall to the floor.

“Christ,” Cian muttered thickly, his gaze eating me up. Reaching behind his neck, he ripped off his sweatshirt and T-shirt at the same time.

I stared. His chest was dusted with hair, a large tattoo of his family’s crest between his pectorals. His stomach was taught and ridged, andKellywas inked in thick, bold letters just abovethe waistband of his boxers. I’d seen it all before, but it hit differently this time.

My nipples peaked as Cian reached for his belt buckle.

I moved toward him, stepping over the towel, my eyes glued to his hands. The muscles in his forearms flexed and bunched as he ripped the belt open and unbuttoned his jeans.

I let out a sound of protest when he abandoned what he was doing, but it was lost when his hands found my face and his lips met mine. I groaned deep in my throat.

Cian and I had kissed plenty of times. We’d party and end up falling into bed together, kissing and groping each other over our clothes, but we’d never done more than that. It was always drunken fumbling that left me frustrated and giddy at the same time.

The kiss was so different from anything we’d had before. We were clear-headed. Desperate for connection after the fight we’d had.

And we knew exactly where it was leading.

He tasted like cinnamon gum, and he smelled like rain.

We moved around the room with no purpose, bumping into things as we fought for more skin. His hand gripped my ass, the tips of his fingers so close to my center that I shuddered. My palms cupped the back of his head as I tangled my fingers in his hair. Still, we kissed.

I tore at the waistband of his jeans, shoving them down his thighs. My back hit the wall as he lifted me, wrapping my legs around his hips.

“I need you,” I gasped against his mouth. “Please, baby.”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy lifting me until he could reach my nipple with his mouth. He sucked it inside, his teeth barely scraping the skin, and my back arched so hard that the back of my head slammed into the wall. I barely noticed.

Cian’s head shot up. “Shit.”

“I’m okay,” I muttered, trying to guide his mouth back to my nipple. “I’m fine.”

He paused, his eyes roaming from my face to my breasts.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he breathed, giving his head a little shake.

I let out a squeal as he spun us away from the wall, my hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

He dropped me onto the bed just as someone knocked on my door.

“Uh, Myla?” Frankie called out, laughter in her voice.

“Go the fuck away,” Cian ordered, reaching for the waistband of his jeans.

“Just wanted to make sure everything was okay,” she said, full-on laughing.

“Get the fuck away from the door.”

“Finally,” she muttered as she left.

“Sorry,” I said distractedly as I stared.

I’d seen Cian in his underwear before. Not often, but it had happened once in a while on accident. But he’d always slept fully dressed if I was in bed with him. We’d both known that if any clothes came off while we were fooling around, there would be no turning back.

My mouth watered as he bent over to take off his boot and socks, giving me a glimpse of the massive club tattoo on his back. He kicked off the jeans and straightened.

Cian was ripped. I’d known it, but seeing it up close was an entirely different experience.

He hadn’t always been muscular. When Cian had first come to the club, he’d been kind of scrawny. It hadn’t mattered. Back then, my teenage heart had fluttered at just the sight of his perfect smile.

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