Page 65 of Eight Second Hearts

He leans forward and drops the lighter in my hands. “In that case, I do have a few ideas.”

I look down at the lighter, seeing the image on the front I recognize. It fits him perfectly, a rubber duck with bubbles andthe words, “Lucky duck” engraved into the black. I flip it over, trying to find whatever it is that he was scratching, and pause when I see the roughly scratched heart with my name written inside it. I glance up at him and he grins. Before I can ask him about the sweet gesture, he shoves the table back and I jump at the sudden movement, watching as he drops to the floor and crawls over to me on his hands and knees. I stare at him with wide eyes, trying to figure out what he’s doing.

“What are these ideas?” I ask as he grabs my knees and parts them before settling between them. I carefully set the lighter to the side out of harm’s way.

Right now, Beau Rogers is all wicked intent as he looks up at me. This is the man who dragged me out onto the red dirt and played a game of chicken with a bull. This is the man who drives women wild with just a smile. “Well, Indie bird,” he purrs. “I’m on my knees before you, and trust me, it’s not to pray, but I’ll be damned if I don’t worship you in a different way.”

Ope. Well, there went my panties. Yeah. That’s all it fucking takes.

I reach for his face, stroking my fingers down his jaw. This has been a long time coming, honestly. We’ve danced around each other since we first met, and now here he is, kneeling before me, his eyes alight with fire. For me. I’ve never felt so wanted before in my life.

“What do you want from me?” I ask.

“No, no, no, Indie bird,” he chastises. “That’s not how worship works.” His hands smooth down my thighs, stroking, sending little bolts of electricity through my body as he caresses me. “I’m on my knees for you.”

“What does that mean?” I breathe.

He laughs. “Oh, Indie bird. I will do all manner of depraved, dirty, slutty, and shameful things to be your good boy.”

He shocks me. My mouth pops open in an “O” as I realize what he’s saying. “You want me to be in control.”

He tilts his face into my hand. “I told you, little outsider,” he murmurs. “I am your dog. Do with me what you will.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

He presses his lips to my palm. “I’m a little jester for all to giggle and point at, Indie bird, but at some point, I do indeed need to be loved.”

My heart squeezes and I lean forward to press my lips to his. He kisses me back, bordering on controlling the kiss, but he never pushes back, never climbs over me. He waits for me to make the move, for me to control it. Part of me understands it stems from his need to be wanted, to be loved. He’s desperate to be touched, to be guided, and unlike the way we’d almost fucked in the arena back in Tucson, this feels different.

More important. More reverent.

“Take off my pants,” I rasp. It’s meant to be a command, but my voice is so breathy, it almost comes out a question. I make note to do better for him.

He reaches for the button of my jeans, making quick work of popping it open and tugging them down my hips, pulling my underwear with them. He shucks them off my legs easily and then strokes his hands along my knees.

“Can I taste you?” he asks, his rough fingers making me shiver as they stroke my flesh. Those fingers caress my scars, trace them, remember them. “Please.”

“Yes,” I reply.

His fingers tighten around my knees and jerk me to the edge of the couch, my legs widening to accommodate his shoulders. He leans down and runs his lips along my inner thigh, teasing me. “I’m so hungry,” he groans. “So hungry for a taste of you.”

I thread my fingers into his hair and tighten them. “Then eat.”

He moans with the command as I drag him to the apex of my thighs. He does as I tell him, his tongue lapping at my core, circling my clit with expert movements, and my legs immediately begin to shake. He tugs me further down, placing me before him like a feast so he can eat me better, so he can satiate himself as much as he wishes. He runs his tongue along my seam, looking up to meet my eyes as he does so, watching as I gasp and hold him tighter against me. The way he looks at me, it makes my core tighten until it’s almost painful as I hover there on the precipice of release. He twists his tongue, and I shatter, liquid flooding his tongue as I moan my pleasure. He hums at the feeling of it as I grind against his tongue.

“I need you,” I pant. “Please.”

“How do you want me?’ he coos. “Tell me, Indie bird.”

“Lay down on the rug,” I growl, desperate to feel him inside of me.

He does as I say, and I slide off the couch, grabbing at his t-shirt and jerking it over his head. I reach for his pants next, shoving them down around his thighs. I don’t bother trying to get them all the way off. Instead, I reveal exactly what those revolvers are pointing at. And fuck if it’s not a great cock.

I grab it and stroke, making him lift his hips and moan as I wrap my fingers around him. With my other hand, I reach up and run my nails along his abs, stroking over the tattoos there.

Straddling his waist, I position him toward my entrance, running the tip of his cock through my juices before I slowly sink down on him. Our groans mix together, a symphony of sweet desire that makes me gush around him. I dig my fingers into his chest as I sink onto him fully before beginning to ride. I swirl my hips and grind down on him, soft moans leaving my lips at the feeling of him inside me.

“Leave marks,” he breathes out as I scrap my nails there. “Please leave marks.”

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