Page 7 of Gemini Queen
He doesn’t strike me as a Mick Gemini hit man, because Adam here’s way too dominant and way too cocky to kowtow to a jumped-up casino czar with a God complex like my weaselly dad.
Still, I want to unleash the full force of my Gemini curse and hurl the threat of him straight through the goddamn wall. Almost as much as I want to hop onto the counter and unzip his pants and let him sink that thick shaft shoved up against his leathers so deep inside me I can taste him in my throat.
“Well, shit, Adam,” I hear myself breathe, low and throaty, like he’s already fucking me raw. “You almost make me sorry to disappoint.”
Because, you know, the bomb.
“Who says I’m disappointed?” he growls deep in his chest. “You’re already wet for me. I can smell it.”
Okay, guilty as charged on that one. My pussy’s been pumping and slick with need since this feral tiger cornered me in here, with black flames licking up his neck and golden heat pooling in his eyes and the dark musk of danger rising from his skin.
He’s looming over me, less than a foot away, fencing me in between his arms, but still not touching. Except for a single long swath of blue-black hair that spills over one shoulder to brush my bare arm.
Suddenly that silky tickle is all I feel.
His scent of amber and bergamot is thick enough to taste. Our eyes are locked together like two cobras poised to strike.
And I’ve already seen he’s got knives in his boots just like I do that I’m pretty fucking sure he’s lethal with. He’s pissed as hell and he’s too damn hostile and there’s definitely something wrong about him being here.
Yet my unruly gaze drops to his fuck-me mouth and suddenly I don’t give a shit about anything except feeling him kissing and sucking and biting his way up my thighs.
“Fuck, Adam,” I rasp. “Don’t read too much into this. But you’ve got literally five minutes to make me come.”
“Game on,” he snarls. “And it’s fuckingRonin.”
Right before he dives in and I push up and our mouths crash together.
Because, yeah, fucking Ronin is one program I can definitely get on board with. We’ll just have to make it snappy.
He tastes like sin and whiskey and he kisses me like he’s going to crawl down my throat and gut me. He kisses me like he hates me. Even though he doesn’t even know me.
I grip two fistfuls of his silky shirt and rip it open. So I can get my hands on all that tawny skin that burns my palms like I’m handling a hot skillet. He’sreallyhot, likeunnaturally hot, and there’s something vital here I need to register. But he’s shoving his tongue in my mouth and biting my lips until they sting and gripping my thighs to hoist me hard on the counter and I need to brace an arm behind me just to stay upright.
Because I’m not going flat on my back under this psycho.
He’s as likely to rip my throat out as fuck me.
He shoves my thighs wide and I rip his pants open and drag down his zipper and,fuck,he’s going commando. I can’t see a thing with him kissing me like this, which is really too bad. Because my hand wraps around what feels like a literal mile of cock, all thick and hot and ropy in my fist, a slick tendril of precum already drooling from his slit. I give him a few rough strokes to make him good and ready.
And he moans long and low into my mouth like I just goddamn knifed him.
Then my pumping hand bumps up against the smooth metal ring that pierces the head of his dick. And now it’s my turn to moan.
Confession time. I have a major weakness for a pierced cock. That weakness has gotten me in trouble before.
But I still can’t see shit because, really, I can’t stop kissing him long enough to look.
His rough palms slide up my thighs and shove aside my skirt and drag down my panties. His hands feel like he bathes in battery acid. But, honestly, who gives a shit if he’s rough. My thighs are slick with craving and my pussy aches with need.
“Hurry,” I moan against his mouth, reluctantly giving up his cock long enough to wrestle his pants down around his hips.
“Trying,” he mutters, biting my lower lip until I taste the salt and metal of my own blood. Then he thrusts two fingers deep inside me. Fireworks explode against my closed lids. I keen with pleasure and he snarls with satisfaction.
Hate fuck.
There’s definitely something to be said for it.
Somehow I’m flat on my back across the cool granite slab, right where I know it’s not safe to be, but screw being cautious and screw being safe. Skirt pushed around my hips, panties wrapped around one ankle, I’m writhing and clawing at the granite and him. His fingers pump into me, slick and hot with my own juices, the wet slide of flesh on flesh audible in the heated air.
