Page 70 of The Candlemaker

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he rasped, his hands locking on my waist with a punishing grip as his mouth trailed a wet path along my jaw to the sensitive spot right below my ear.

I tipped my head back and panted. “I get that a lot.”

“Not like this, you don’t.” He growled like a lion protecting his pride, and when I shivered, he ordered, “Take off your clothes.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “So bossy. Do I call you Mr. Collins, or would you prefer sir?’”

A hint of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth before it disappeared, and he gripped my chin, the intensity of his expression making my core clench.

“Such attitude.” His thumb traced my lips. “I wonder how smart that mouth would be when it’s stuffed with my cock.” My jaw dropped, and instantly his thumb dipped inside and pressed on my tongue as he bent forward and muttered, “To answer your question, call me whatever is going to be easier for you to scream.”

And then his hand was gone. His heat. His proximity. He stepped back against the fireplace, his hands reaching for the buttons on his shirt as he stared expectantly for me to do the same.

Seconds passed, filled with the sopping slop of clothespeeling from skin and landing on the floor. The hearth hissed with the growing fire, or maybe that was just him—the breath leaking from his lungs as I stood in front of him, wet and bare and wanting.

I didn’t hurry the moment because I needed to look my fill. He was gorgeous, and even though I expected it, I wasn’t prepared. The raw beauty, all toned muscles and pulsing veins, and his thick cock hanging heavy in front of him.Good god, did the man have any physical flaws?If he did, I was utterly blind to them. Like this, he wasn’t put together or professional. He wasn’t buttoned up, believing he was only good for business. Like this, he was exposed. Unfiltered. Unhindered.

And mine.

“Give me your hand,” Chandler ordered, his voice sounding stripped, and my eyes snapped up from his waist.

Without hesitation, I extended my arm, and his grip locked firmly around my fingers. I watched him take the candle he’d set on the mantel and bring it close, the flame pulsing wildly like it was caught in our electric erotic storm.

Chandler held my eyes, swallowed them up in the dark pools of his. “I’m going to make you burn for me.”

My nipples furled tight, and I taunted, “You can try.” It was better than admitting I was already set aflame.

Again, his half-cocked smile appeared and sent a fresh rush of heat between my legs in anticipation. The candle tipped, and the liquid wax collecting around the wick shifted. Surged.Spilled.I shivered just before the first drops landed onthe inside of my wrist and then gasped at the familiar but oh-so different sensation. It was hot. Scorching.But before I could process any pain, his mouth was there. He blew on the pool of wax, cooling it on my skin, and then he pressed his thumb firmly on top of it.

“Are youokay?”

My tongue slid along my bottom lip. “Yes.”

But also no.

How many times had I burned myself with fire or wax in the last decade? Countless. It was a hazard of the job. But this was no hazard. This was intentional, illicit intimacy. This went beyond trusting him with my pleasure, I was trusting him with my pain—trusting him to wield both like the deadliest, double-edged sword.

“Good,” he said gruffly. “Because I’m going to mark every inch of you.” He lifted his thumb away, leaving behind a wax thumbprint like a seal over my pulse.

Instantly, I imagined those fingerprints burning all over me. My arms. My breasts. My stomach. Between my thighs.

“Chandler…” My throat strangled out his name.

In one quick movement, his thumb peeled off the hardened wax, the red skin underneath instantly covered by the heat of his mouth. The soothing kiss did nothing but make the ache inside me stronger.

I reached for his face, his expression angry like I’d ripped food right from his starving mouth. But I was starving, too. He was trying to go slow—to be tender. And while my chest squeezed at the notion, I knew what I was asking for. I knew exactly what I wanted.

“Burn me again,” I begged throatily.Mark me as yours.

The kind of person who pleaded to play with fire didn’t think twice about being consumed. That was how fire worked. There was no half-flame or partial light. There was only on fire or not. And tonight, I wanted to be on fire for him.

Chapter Seventeen

Chandler

“Burn me again.”

Using my hand around her wrist, I hauled her against me and kissed her like I’d been starved of her for the whole of my thirty-six years. Her plea ripped the buttons of my restraint, and I bruised her smart, soft mouth with my own.

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