Page 33 of Brutal Obsession

“How much?” He rolls my nipple between his thumb and finger, and my back arches.

“None.”

“None?” His fingers stop massaging me in both areas.

“Unlike you, I didn’t come here for sex.”

We stand there, tangled around each other, unmoving, eyes locked.

I think it’s time for me to tap into my secret stash of confidence.

“Cian.”

“What.”

I lick my lips and gather my courage. “I want you to fuck me.”

A wild, rabid heat comes to his eyes. He whips me around to face the door, my back to his chest.

Fear, surprise, and anticipation mingle inside me.

Is he really going to rail me right here?

This moment is surreal.

The cool wood of the front door assures me that this is reality. With my cheek and hands pressed against it, I brace for impact but still find myself unprepared for what Cian does next.

He runs the tip of his tongue from the lobe of my right ear up and around the shell. His hot palms disappear under my dress and reappear at the hemline of my underwear.

“Spread your legs.” He nudges one leg between mine, forcing me to step wide. Then he rakes my underwear down, so they’re suspended between my thighs.

With his right hand, he reaches around my middle and finds my clit. His bare skin on my mine sends a bolt of pure ecstasy through me.

I gasp against the door and then flush with embarrassment. I don’t want Cian to know how much he affects me with only his out-of-this-world fingers.

His ego is plenty big already.

He tucks his face into my crease between my neck and shoulders and bites down again. “Is this what you had in mind?”

A moan escapes, despite my efforts to hold it in.

His tongue laves the skin he just marked. “Tell me what you want.”

My eyelids sink to half-mast as Cian works my clit like a damn professional.

When his voice drops an octave, my pulse sprints. “Well?”

Yes. And no. I want this, but if I’m honest, I also want more.

I want everything. The whole Cian experience.

But how do I tell him that? I already used up my confidence stash for the year. Embarrassment level: one-million percent.

His finger stops moving, and my body shrieks in protest. “Well?” he repeats softly.

Don’t ask me how I know, because I just do…if I don’t answer and spell out what I want, he’ll stop.

And I might die if that happens.

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