Page 10 of Taken By the Outlaw

I pull her against me, one hand tangling in her hair, the other pressed to the small of her back. Her body is soft against mine, yielding. I lower my head slowly, giving her time to process what's happening, then press my lips to hers.

The kiss starts gentle, a question rather than a demand. Her lips are soft, tentative, inexperienced. But when I deepen the kiss, sliding my tongue along the seam of her mouth, she responds with unexpected hunger, opening for me, a small sound catching in her throat.

The taste of her hits me like lightning, sharp and sweet. My control slips, grip tightening in her hair, pulling her head back to give me better access. I devour her mouth, claiming her with a thoroughness that surprises even me. She clings to me, fingers digging into my shoulders, body arching instinctively toward mine.

When I finally break the kiss, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, eyes glazed. I've barely touched her, and already she looks halfway to ruined.

"Do you want this?" I ask, needing to hear her say it. "Say it, Emilia. Tell me you want me."

"I want this," she whispers. Then, stronger: "I want you, Clark."

My name on her lips snaps something inside me. I lift her, laying her down on the bed, coming over her like a shadow. Her hair fans out across my pillow, and the sight of her there—in my bed, willing,waiting—nearly breaks my self-control.

I pull my shirt over my head, watching her eyes widen as she takes in my bare chest, the tattoos that mark my skin, the scars from a violent life. Her gaze lingers on a knife wound just below my collarbone, then travels lower, to the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath my jeans.

"Can I?" she asks again, hand hovering above my skin.

I nod, not trusting my voice. Her fingers trace the tattoo that covers my right shoulder, a stylized wolf—the mark that earned me my nickname in the MC. Her touch is feather-light, curious, sending sparks across my skin.

"This is why they call you The Wolf," she says.

I'm startled that she knows this. "Who told you that name?"

"I heard the others say it." Her fingers continue their exploration, moving to a scar on my ribs. "How did you get this?"

"Knife fight. Five years ago." I capture her hand, pressing it flat against my chest, over my heart. "Feel that? What you do to me?"

My heart is racing, a fact she can surely feel beneath her palm. Her eyes widen slightly, understanding dawning.

"No more questions," I tell her. "Not tonight."

I reach for the hem of her shirt, drawing it upward slowly, giving her time to object. She doesn't. She raises her arms again, letting me pull it over her head. Her bra is as simple as I imagined—white cotton with a tiny bow between her breasts. The sight makes my mouth water.

"Perfect," I murmur, running a finger along the edge of the fabric, watching goosebumps rise on her skin.

I take my time undressing her, savoring each new revelation—the constellation of freckles across her collarbone, the gentle curve of her waist, the soft swell of her breasts. By the time she's naked beneath me, I'm painfully hard, every muscle tense with the effort of holding back.

She tries to cover herself, arms crossing over her chest, but I gently pull them away.

"Don't hide from me," I say. "I want to see all of you."

Her blush spreads down her neck, across her chest. I follow it with my lips, tasting the salt of her skin, the rapid flutter of her pulse. She gasps when I take a nipple into my mouth, back arching off the bed.

"Clark," she breathes, the sound somewhere between a plea and a prayer.

I've never been a patient man, never cared much for foreplay. But with Emilia, I find myself wanting to extend every moment, to draw out her pleasure until she's mindless with it. I worship her body with hands and mouth, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her say my name in that broken, desperate way that drives me crazy.

By the time I settle between her thighs, she's trembling, wet and ready for me. I take her hands, pinning them above her head, needing her completely at my mercy.

"Look at me," I command softly. "I want to see your eyes when I make you mine."

She obeys, those hazel eyes locking with mine, trust and desire warring in their depths. I position myself at her entrance, feeling her heat against the head of my cock. The urge to thrust forward, to claim her roughly, is nearly overwhelming. But I hold back, pressing forward slowly, giving her body time to adjust to the intrusion.

The tight heat of her is exquisite torture. I watch her face carefully for signs of pain, ready to stop if it's too much. Her expression tightens momentarily as I breach her barrier, a small sound of discomfort escaping her lips. I freeze, waiting, fighting every instinct that screams at me to move.

"Don't stop," she whispers, surprising me. "Please, Clark. Don't stop."

I capture her mouth in a deep kiss as I push forward, swallowing her gasp as I seat myself fully inside her. The sensation is overwhelming—tight, hot, perfect.Mine.She's mine now, in the most fundamental way possible.

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