Page 55 of Graveyard Dog

“Yes, it would. I just have one more question, Killer.”

“Yeah?”

“What was in the cabinet?”

Her brow furrowed as she tried to decipher what he meant. “Cabinet?”

“The one above your stove.” He tilted his head in the general direction of her kitchen. “The one you reached over me to get to while wearing that paper-thin robe. The same paper-thin robe that parted just enough to give me a spectacular view of your thighs.”

A look of stunned realization froze on her face. He studied her as she thought back to this morning when she came out of her room in a robe and nothing else. In her defense, she believed she’d disabled him. “That’s right. I ordered you to close your eyes, but—”

“But I don’t take orders from women who are one sandwich short of a picnic.”

Her cheeks brightened to a delightful pink. He was probably enjoying her discomfort more than he had a right to. But then his words sank in. She sobered and scowled prettily at him. “Perv.”

“Tease.”

“So, you don’t take orders from women who are one sandwich short of a picnic?”

An electrical current shot through every cell in his body at the sight of her challenging gaze, setting his already fragile sense of gentlemanly decorum on edge—not that he had much in the towel—but he couldn’t cave now. He offered her his own challenging gaze. “Not as a rule, no.”

One corner of her mouth rose, exposing the dimple he was sure would eventually be the death of him. “I’ll bet you ten dollars that you will do exactly what I tell you to do next.”

“I don’t have my pants right now, but I’m good for it. You’re on.”

She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on his mouth, his chest, and then lower, the heat of her stare causing him to far exceed the capacity of her hand before she leaned closer and whispered, “Get rid of the towel.”

He couldn’t rip it off fast enough—for either of them if her hurried assistance was any indication. She threw the towel on the counter, the T-shirt on the floor, and herself on him. He pulled her tight against him, kissing her like he was dying of thirst, and she was an oasis. He’d never tasted anything so sweet. So sensual. That was when things went south.

She broke off the kiss and glared at him, panting as she did so. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, confused. Wasn’t this consensual? If not, he really needed to work on his social intelligence.

“You’re holding back,” she said, cupping the base of his cock in her hand and applying just enough pressure to make him wince. In a good way. In a very,verygood way. “You still think I’m some delicate thing.”

“No, I don’t,” he said, his voice brimming with guilt.

“Remember, Michael Cavalcante. Fragile, yes. But not like a flower.”

“Like a bomb,” he said, wrapping his hand around her throat and pressing her against the smooth wall. Her words unleashed something primal in him. Something greedy. Giving him permission to do as he pleased was probably not her wisest decision. He kissed her hard, his teeth scraping and bruising her lips as he crushed his mouth to hers.

She whimpered as he parted her legs with his knee and sent his fingers inside her, preparing her for what would come next. She scratched at his buttocks, wanting more. Wanting him.

The shower wall had a small shelf, and her ass fit perfectly there when he propped her up onto it, lifted her leg, and braced one hand against the wall to hold her in position.

“Open your eyes,” he said, his voice more animal than human.

She did. She lifted her lids and showed him those gorgeous smoke-tinted irises, like a wild coyote lived inside her. Ate and slept and bred by the grace of her exquisite flesh.

He tightened his hold on her throat and pushed inside. She gasped, her sexy mouth forming a perfect O, but he didn’t break eye contact as he slid in and out of her, slowly at first and then faster, pumping into her until the sharp sting of orgasm threatened to explode. But he wasn’t finished yet. Not even close. He pushed inside her and stayed, catching his breath, slowing his heart rate.

She clung to him, lured him closer, pressed her clit against his flesh. “More,” she whispered in his ear.

He pulled out, turned her to face the wall, and angled her head against his shoulder until he could bend and kiss her again. He held her there with one hand, his tongue assaulting her mouth. With the other, he dipped his fingers in that peach conditioner, spread her ass cheeks apart, and slid a finger inside.

She gasped and sank her nails into his arm, but he held her tight, refusing to give in. After a moment, she relaxed against him. As he massaged, her breaths quickened, grew shallower until a soft moan escaped her.

“Do I proceed?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

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